


When We Were Eleven

by Evilpixie



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Second Chances, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Young Love, self destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22800613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: Bruce and Clark are soulmates. You'd think that would make things simple. But the course of true love never did run smooth.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 720
Kudos: 893
Collections: Superbat bottom Bruce & Top Clark1





	1. Chapter 1

When he was eleven years old a name appeared on Bruce’s skin. It was a signature, written in a large careful hand just below his left arm, across his ribcage. _Clark J. Kent_. Bruce considered it in his bathroom mirror for a long time. The loop of the C, the dot after the J, the small tail at the bottom of the T.

So… He had a soulmate. A _male_ soulmate, if the name was any indication. That was an interesting thing to learn about oneself. Not a surprise, not really. He’d already begun to suspect that he may be gay. Or, at least, not entirely straight. Still, it was strange to have something like that so simply yet firmly confirmed from an outside source.

“Master Bruce?”

He pulled his shirt down, hiding the mark from view. “Yes, Alfred? What is it?”

The butler spoke through the closed door. “Breakfast is served. In fact, it was served quite some time ago. I can’t help but notice you’ve spent longer than usual preening yourself this morning. Is everything alright?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, that is a shame. Still, I think you should give eating a try. Your maths tutor is due to arrive shortly and you know what happened last time you went to one of your lessons hungry.”

Bruce groaned, strode across the room, and pushed open the door. He sent Alfred a dark look as he passed.

The butler was unfazed. “Very good, sir.”

Clark J. Kent, Bruce turned the name over in his mind as he climbed down the stairs towards the sitting room where Alfred served breakfast.

It was an ordinary, if not slightly old fashioned, name. Without much more to go off it would be tricky to find the boy the name belonged to. But not impossible. Not for him.

*

Clark was eleven years old when his soulmate’s mark appeared on his skin. He was so excited when he saw it he ran down to show his parents at once.

“Mama! Papa! Look!”

“Careful, Clark! You almost knocked your mother… oh…” Jonathan Kent’s eyes widened when he saw the small spiky signature on Clark’s forearm. “Oh that’s… oh…”

“Bruce Wayne?” Martha read it out, wrapping an arm around her husband. “What a lovely name.”

Jonathan’s eyes had gone large and watery. “Clark I’m… I’m _so_ happy for you.”

“We have to find him,” Clark said loudly.

“Well… we are going to the county fair this weekend. Maybe you’ll see him there?”

“Yes! The county fair!” He needed to pick out his clothes. Something nice, so when his soulmate – _Bruce Wayne_ – saw him for the first time he wouldn’t be disappointed. As he rushed back up the stairs towards his bedroom he heard his parents whisper to each other in the kitchen.

Jonathan. “I was so scared he wouldn’t ever…”

Martha. “I know. It’s okay. I know.”

Clark didn’t waste time trying to decipher that conversation. He flung open his wardrobe doors and pulled out all his favourite shirts. The blue one? No. All the kids in school had that t-shirt. He needed to look different. What about the red and black plaid? Did that make him look cool? Or was it too ‘Scottish Cowboy?’ Maybe he should go with just plain white with blue jeans?

In the end he’d gone with a combination of the three looks. The blue t-shirt with the plaid overtop and blue jeans on the bottom. He ran up to and introduced himself to every boy his age that he saw. Some of them frowned at him, some shied away, others seemed happy to have made a new friend… but none recognised his name and none introduced themselves as ‘Bruce Wayne’.

In fact, he didn’t even find a single ‘Bruce’.

“Don’t worry about it, Clark,” his mum told him on the car ride home. “You’ll find him. I’m sure. It took me years to find Jonathan and he lived just one village over.”

He sat up straighter. “Can we stop at the next village?”

Gentle laughter. “No, Clark. But, tell you what, I’ll give you the phone book tonight. You can call every Wayne in there you can find.”

*

Several weeks of investigation and several false leads later he still hadn’t found Clark J. Kent. He was beginning to suspect he didn’t exist, at least, not under that name. He’d read stories of people who changed their names as adults and it was the changed name that appeared on their partner, not their given name. But, for it to appear on him at all, his soulmate must have signed _something_ with this name, even if it was just the back page of a diary.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure he wanted a soulmate anyway. It was probably better if they never found each other. After all, Alfred was in his sixties and he’d never found a soulmate. It happened. Perhaps it would happen to Bruce too. A life left to focus on his work.

It had an attractive kind of finality to it.

But then, one night over dinner, Alfred put a card down beside his plate with a phone number written across it.

“A Clark Joseph Kent called asking for you, sir.”

Bruce stared.

Alfred had a knowing smile.

_Dammit_. “Thank you, Alfred.”

He tucked the card into his pocket and focused on cutting up his meal, moving it around his plate, taking little bites when he saw the butler’s eyes on him. As soon as he could he excused himself and went to his room.

He waited until he was sure Alfred was in bed before sneaking down stairs and pulling the phone in the hallway off the cradle. He carefully dialled in the number. It didn’t ring. Not once. But someone picked it up anyway.

A breathless voice. _“Hello?”_

“Um. Hello. I am calling for Clark Kent. Is he available?”

_“Bruce?”_

“Yes.”

_“It’s me.”_

Bruce’s chest felt tight. “Hello,” he said again.

_“Hello.”_

“I… I think you’re my soulmate.”

_“Yes.”_

After that neither of them seemed to know what to say. The silence was long, heavy, and uncomfortable. Was this what it was meant to be like talking to your soulmate for the first time? In the movies soulmates meeting was always magical. But this…?

_“Bruce?”_

“Yes, Clark?”

_“Do you like music?”_

He didn’t. “Yeah.”

_“What’s your favourite band?”_

“I don’t know.”

_“I like John Denver and ABBA.”_

Bruce tried to reconcile those two choices in his mind. “Okay.”

_“What’s your favourite movie?”_

Something in him hardened. “I don’t watch movies.”

_“Why not?”_

Bruce didn’t answer.

_“I like The Jungle Book.”_

“I thought _The Planet of the Apes_ would be more your kind of thing,” Bruce muttered.

_“No,”_ Clark said quickly. _“Not that one.”_

Another pause, even longer and more awkward than the last.

_“Hey Bruce?”_

“Yes?”

_“I’m really glad I found you.”_

*

His parents were whispering in the other room.

“He’s eleven, Martha. Are you sure it’s appropriate?”

“Oh. Psst. It’s perfectly okay. Imagine how different things would have been if our families had phones when we were kids. Your folks couldn’t have kept me away from you. Besides, if they’re going to find each other this way Clark has to be the one to do it. Not unless you want to go put us in the next phone book.”

“It’s no business of anyone else’s what our number is.”

“Let’s hope Bruce Wayne’s father doesn’t feel the same way.”

He hadn’t told them he’d already found Bruce. It was easy. He’d only had to phone seven Wayne households before he found the one he needed. A stern British man had answered the phone, listened to Clark’s story, and told him he would pass on the message.

That night the phone had rung.

Well… not really. There was a small red light on the cradle that always turned on for a second before it rung. Clark had seen that light from his bedroom, ran down the stairs fast enough to knock all the pictures off the wall, and answered before it made a sound.

Bruce didn’t sound British like Clark had expected. But that was okay. Everything was okay because he’d done it. He’d found his soulmate. His heart was hammering in his chest. His head was spinning. The name on his arm tingled.

He was speaking to the person who he’d marry.

Bruce Wayne. The quiet boy with the soft voice and a British dad. Would they be the Wayne-Kents or the Kent-Waynes? Would Bruce want to live on the farm? Would Bruce think it was freaky that he could run fast and see through things? What if Bruce could also do those things? Maybe that was why they were soulmates. Maybe they were the same.

He let himself get caught up in the fantasy for a few minutes, imaging what it would be like to be with someone who was just like him.

Bruce’s face was still fuzzy and unknown. But everything else was clear and perfect.

*

One thousand five hundred and fifty seven miles. That was the distance between Wayne Manor and the Kent Farm, located just outside Smallville, Kansas. It took them forty seven hours and twenty nine minutes to get there, stops included. Bruce wasn’t sure if he wanted Alfred to drive faster or slower.

He wanted to meet his soulmate… because that’s what you’re supposed to want. You’re supposed to want to be happy. And he did want that… in a way. But he also wanted not to be distracted or controlled and with every mile closer to Kansas he felt those chains tighten around him. He was expected to meet this boy, this boy he’d never known, and fall in love with him. He was expected to spend his life with him.

Just like his father had spent his life with his mother.

Because that’s what fate decreed. Together, forever, even in death.

Bruce didn’t want that. He wanted to push back. He wanted to scream and hit and run and… he didn’t know what else.

He pushed those desires down.

They arrived at the Kent farm in the middle of the day. The family – a mother, father, two dogs, and son – were all standing outside on the porch watching them pull up. The boy had dark hair, pink cheeks, and bright _bright_ blue eyes. Even from a distance Bruce could see them shining, fixed on him… even though that was impossible. The windows were tinted. He couldn’t see Bruce. But the boy – Clark J. Kent – was looking at him… and when Bruce raised his hand as if to wave Clark beamed and waved back.

This was… strange.

Alfred parked the car and they both climbed out and approached the family together.

“Alfred Pennyworth? Hello! I’m Jonathan Kent. Yes, we spoke on the phone. And is this Bruce? Hello, young man.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

“This is my wife Martha and this is my son—”

“Hello!” Clark stepped forward, beaming, his gaze still locked onto Bruce. His hand was extended. “My name is Clark Kent.”

“I’m Bruce.”

That hand was still out. Bruce took it and gave it a single shake.

Clark’s skin was warm and soft. His hair was dark and tended towards a curl where it was left long enough to do so. His clothing was… ridiculous… but clearly carefully chosen for this day. Everyone was watching them, as if expecting something profound.

Whatever that thing was it didn’t happen.

“Who wants some ice cream?”

Bruce didn’t eat any of the ice cream. He heard Alfred quietly apologising to Martha, telling her that he was a fussy eater. It made him angry hearing that. It made him sound like a spoilt brat and not someone making choices about their body. But then Martha asked if he was always like that and Alfred said ‘ever since…’ and Bruce had to leave.

He went outside, quickly, so no one would notice, and sat on a rock, staring at his shoes.

“Hey.”

It was Clark.

“Hi.”

“You want to play?” He had a baseball and a bat.

“Sure.”

Hitting something sounded good.

*

Bruce wasn’t fast, or strong. In fact, he didn’t even seen very friendly. He’d spent most of his time inside staring at his shoes or out the window, eyes angry and brows low. His appearance didn’t soften him any. He had black hair which had been combed sharply back from his face, his features were sharp, and his skin was pale, though wouldn’t stay that way long in the Kansas sun.

He missed the first ball Clark threw. And the second. And the third.

“Have you done this before?” Clark asked as Anabel happily brought back the ball.

Bruce’s glare was sharp. “Throw it.”

He missed the forth ball. And the fifth. When he missed the sixth he threw down the bat.

“Do you… um… want me to bat or…?”

Bruce was rolling up his sleeves. He spread his legs and readied his stance, fists up.

Clark was taken aback. “You want to… fight?”

“Come on, Kansas.”

Well. Okay. He’d played football with Lana and Pete. He knew how to tackle without hurting anyone. Gridiron was more fun than baseball anyway. Clark sucked in a deep breath, grinned, and ran at him. Bruce didn’t even flinch. Clark was about to tackle him when, all at once, he found himself on his back.

He blinked.

Bruce was standing over him, a small smug light shining in his eye.

“How… how did you do that?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

“Will you show me?”

A quirk of his lip. “Get up. You have to stand like this.”

Twenty minutes later they were both covered in dirt, grappling, laughing, and throwing each other onto the grass. Clark wasn’t sure when Alfred and his parents started watching but they were, sitting on the back porch, still eating ice cream.

That night they crept out after dinner to sit in the paddock and gaze up at the sky.

“Beautiful night, huh?”

Bruce stayed silent.

Clark studied him for a long moment before plucking up the courage to ask the question he really wanted to ask. “Can I see it?”

“What?”

“Your soulmark.”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “You know what it looks like. Or have you forgotten how you sign your name?”

“Please?”

Bruce’s lips narrowed, but he pulled up his shirt showing the signature on his side. Large, clear, and undoubtedly his. Clark J. Kent. Just like he’d practised in the back of his school book. Clark wanted to touch it but knew that would be crossing a line. Bruce may be his… but they’d also only met today. He should take things slowly and carefully, not do anything that might—

Bruce picked up a stick and with a quick twist of his wrist cracked it across Clark’s head.

“Hey!”

“You’re strong,” Bruce said. “Stronger than anyone. But you hide it. Why?”

“H-how did you know?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Clark was starting to suspect that was something he was going to have to get used to.

“I… I guess I… I don’t want to be a freak. I’m scared that if people knew me, knew what I could do, they would be afraid of me.”

Bruce’s eyes were sharp, even in the darkness. “That sounds awesome.”

Clark laughed. Bruce didn’t. But there was a smile on his lips, small and somehow already familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I'm doing, but I have a feeling it's going to hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

Clark woke to sunlight spilling in through the windows. The bed beneath him was warm with it, the air buzzing. Outside birds were singing, bees were humming, and street lights were snapping off. Metropolis was waking up.

He stretched and allowed himself to float up off the mattress, relishing the feel of energy pulsing in every single one of his cells. It was a good feeling. Power, possibility, and purpose, all flooding through him, warming him down to the bone. It made him want to fly up into the sky and cry out for joy.

A muffled curse.

He rolled in the air and smiled fondly down at the bundle of bedding below him. Not everyone shared his enthusiasm, of course.

“Good morning.”

“Close the curtains,” came the husky voice from within the cocoon of blankets.

He obeyed. Once the room was dark and dreary again he sped back to the bed to plant a hopeful kiss onto the only piece of flesh he could find not buried in bedding. An elbow, of all things.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Hey,” he put on what he hoped was his most charming voice. “It’s a beautiful morning. And you look…” he pulled back the blanket to reveal sleep ravaged black hair, heavily shadowed eyes, and a long pale body doing its very best to curl in on itself. “…beautiful.”

A single steel blue opened to regard him with blatant scorn. “I’m not having sex with you. I don’t care how sunny it is.”

“Not even if I do this?” He made his best ‘sexy face’, pouting his lips and gazing wantonly off into the side of the room.

The response was decidedly unimpressed. “I was tracking that fucking mob boss until 3AM.”

“That was three whole hours ago.”

Without another word the blankets were snatched back from Clark’s fingers and the cocoon was reformed.

He smiled and kissed the bundle right about where he estimated the forehead would be before floating off into the kitchen to fry some eggs and bacon. He made some coffee too, just to see if the smell of it could entice the gremlin out of bed. No luck. But then again, if he really wanted that strategy to work he needed to invest in some better coffee. That snob in there never drank instant.

He was halfway through breakfast when he was distracted by a cry for help, quickly followed by another.

He listened for a moment longer. It was so easy to mistake children playing, or people watching a scary movie, for an actual disaster. That was why he’d taken the job at the Daily Planet six months ago. They would report on things that he hadn’t noticed, that were beyond his hearing, or that wouldn’t generate the kind of sounds that would attract Superman’s attention. It helped him show up to more real emergencies and less false alarms. Still… that one had sounded…

_“Help help! Someone—!”_

It took one second to throw off his dressing gown and jump into his super suit. The second second was spent gently opening and closing one of the windows. The third second he was flying towards the sounds. By the forth he was there.

A construction site being rocked by a sudden and unexpected earth quake. Workers were clinging to the scaffolding, screaming, scrambling, trying to save each other as bricks and metal fell down around them. The crane, was teetering, on the verge of falling, the driver still in the cockpit, desperately trying to steer it.

She wouldn’t be able to control it for long. A second, maybe two. Still, that was more time than some other people had. A man was already falling, only a few floors above the road.

Clark caught him first.

“It’s okay, sir.”

_“Is that you,_ Superman?”

He realised then he wasn’t in America and the language he was hearing wasn’t English.

_“Yes. I’m here. Don’t worry,”_ he said in Mandarin and set the man’s feet on the ground.

_“My co-workers. You have to—”_

The crane above them cracked with a sound like thunder and began to fall.

_“Find shelter,”_ Clark told him as the man teetered on the still shaking ground. The shadow of the crane was over them now. He flew up and caught it before it could crush the man, and all the other pedestrians on the street, flat. The driver was still in the cockpit, her eyes wide. He ripped her free and dropped her in a nearby flower bed. She blinked up at him, shocked but okay, as he desperately searched for a place where he could safely put down the crane in the busy city. Finding none he hurled it up.

More workers had fallen off the scaffolding now, and the scaffolding itself looked ready to go. He caught those in the air, careful not to grab them too roughly, or change the direction too quickly, and used to ice to hopefully reinforce the structure.

It helped. But not much. All too quickly the quake was shattering the ice. Still, it was giving those still on the scaffold time to clamber down.

He deposited those he’d caught on the ground and scanned to see if anyone else was in immediate danger.

There were. There were about two hundred people whose aeroplane, unknown to them, was about to be struck by a flying construction crane.

_Oh fuck._

He bolted up there and caught the crane. Okay, so throwing it up hadn’t been the best idea. Lesson learnt. If he ever did that again he would check for aircraft. He saluted the pilots as they flew by. The pair stared, one of them awkwardly saluting back, no doubt wondering what he was doing thousands of feet in the air with a ruined crane.

Not for the first time he wished there was an instructional manual on superheroing.

Once the plane and flown by he deposited the crane on a nearby beach and flew back to the construction site to help the last of the workers safely down. The earth quake was subsiding and in its wake there was a lot of damaged property, but no dead bodies.

That was a victory in his eyes.

He stayed for a few minutes, shaking hands and hugging children before flying back to America. When he arrived he was late for work. He stuffed the rest of his now cold breakfast into his mouth, changed into his favourite bulky brown suit and yellow tie before putting his glasses on and making the long walk on foot to the Daily Planet head office.

By the time he arrived Superman was already on the TV screens, a particular picture dominating the headlines, him holding the crane over his head, cape swirling, and a comforting smile aimed at the crane driver who was clinging to him. He was glad they didn’t take the photo a second later when he dropped her into the flowers.

“I was wondering where you’d gone,” Lois said, appearing at his side. “How was it? I hear China’s lovely this time of year.”

“Nice beaches,” he said dryly as the image switched to show some people posing with the ruined crane. It was night there but they used their phones to illuminate the sand where some kids were etching in the sand. When they stood back it revealed the hanzi for ‘thank you’ along with the symbol for the House of El. His symbol, the symbol that meant ‘Superman’ on Earth.

“Hm. I can see that.” She yawned. “Fuck.”

“I didn’t think you’d be up so soon,” Clark teased. “Something about tracking a mob boss until 3AM last night?”

She sent him a dark look. “Trust me, Smallville. If it was up to me I’d still be in your bed.”

“Hm.” He let himself picture that. “We could still go back there, you know, for lunch.”

“You’re insatiable,” she told him. “But, alas, I have an urgent assignment. Perry called me just after you left. I’m heading to Gotham in an hour.”

His smile slipped. “Gotham? Why?”

“While you were off saving the world you missed it. The big headline.”

“What big headline?”

“It's not that exciting. Apparently some billionaire’s son has returned from the dead right when his estate was about to be transferred away to the extended family. Caused quite the stir. The Public Trustee has already gone on record saying it’s the most outrageous thing to even happen in her line of work, or something like that. Apparently he waltzed in there with a supermodel on each arm, told her he wasn’t dead after all, provided two hundred points of identification to prove it, and left. What was his name, again? Bertie? Bernard?”

“Bruce,” Clark said, every cell in his body going ice cold. “Bruce Wayne.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s it. So you have heard? Well, apparently it’s big news. Big enough to get me out of bed early.” She yawned again. “Why I have to report on some arsehole’s six year long holiday I don’t know. I was nominated for a Pulitzer for Christ’s sake. But, here we are. I bet you he was…”

Clark didn’t hear what she said after that. Everything was drowned out by the sudden ringing in his ears. Bruce. Bruce Wayne. He was alive. _He was alive_. After all the years… years of grief, confusion, uncertainty… and now he was back… just like that…

“Smallville? Are you okay?”

He wasn’t. He was the furthest from okay he’d ever been. Bruce was alive. He was back. And he hadn’t gone to Clark. He hadn’t even _tried_ to contact him. But he’d found time to pick up a supermodel or two before going to reclaim his inheritance…

“Clark?”

He felt like the name on his arm was burning. The name he’d hidden beneath bandages for _years_.

Bruce Wayne.

The boy he’d fallen in love with when he was eleven years old.

His soulmate.

_No._ This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. It was someone pretending to be Bruce. Some sick fuck con man who had stolen his identity and was trying to get the money. That had to be it. Bruce wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t…

But then the images on the screen changed with the headline to show a picture.

Bruce Wayne, as beautiful as he’d always been, stern features, black hair, pale blue eyes. The only thing imperfect about him the vapid empty smile he’d aimed towards the camera and the floppy peace sign he’d thrown up. The women either side of him were gorgeous, and clearly not having much fun, holding the billionaire up and trying not to look annoyed about it as they smiled at the camera.

Was he drunk?

The next picture confirmed it. He had a bottle of champagne. _Champagne_. He was drinking champagne before picking up the phone and… and…

“I… I have to go…”

Lois was looking alarmed. “Is everything okay?”

“No. I… I have to go.”

Before he knew he was moving he was in the sky, his human clothes ripping off him with the force of the wind, cape snapping behind him. It took him three minutes to reach the sun. When he did he stared at her, felt the warm comforting touch of her light on his skin, and screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what I'm doing.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce’s house was… something else. Clark spent a full minute just staring up at it. Large, gothic, and kinda terrifying. Dark windows, looming spires, and was that a bat? Okay. That was creepy. But bat aside, it was pretty amazing. He knew Bruce was rich. He’d known that from the moment he saw that sleek black car arrive at the farmhouse last summer. But this? This was…

“Pemberley,” Clark said.

Bruce frowned. “What?”

“Nothing I just… I’ve never seen a house like this… for real.”

“This way, young sirs,” Alfred led them forward and through the front door. Bruce kept his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Clark didn’t. He stared at everything they passed. And why shouldn’t he? It was amazing.

Alfred, seeing Clark’s excitement, gave a tour of the house’s most impressive locations. The dining room had four fire places. Four! And there was a ballroom, a literal ballroom, with a wall of mirrors, not to mention a chandelier. Despite that, Clark’s favourite place was the library. It wasn’t as big as some of the other rooms but it had a ladder on wheels and thousands of books which were two pretty awesome things in Clark’s humble opinion.

After the tour Alfred took them into a sitting room and served them dinner. Bruce, as usual, didn’t eat much of it. Clark cleaned his plate down to the last crumb and went back for seconds. He talked throughout most of the meal. He couldn’t help it. He was so excited to be there. His mother had driven him to the airport that morning and given him his plane ticket and a kiss on the forehead. Alfred and Bruce had picked him up in a different sleek black car than the one that had come to Smallville.

He was going to stay at Wayne Manor for three weeks.

It was the longest he’d ever been away from home. But he was twelve now. He was ready.

Besides, it wasn’t really like he was out here alone. He had Bruce. He smiled at the other boy.

Bruce looked down.

He and Bruce had spent the last year sending letters to each other. He sent more letters than Bruce but that was okay. Bruce told him he wasn’t much of a writer so the fact that he sat down every couple of weeks and penned out a letter despite that made them all the more special. Clark kept every one.

After dinner Alfred showed Clark his room. It was three times the size of his one at home and had its own bathroom and balcony. It was awesome. The coolest thing ever. Way better than summer camp with Pete and Lana.

And yet, when the lights were out, he found he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the strange room, it was the strange sounds of the nearby city, rumbling like a massive sleepless dragon, just on the horizon, and the howl of the wind from the sea.

When the clock on his bedside table turned to midnight he crept out of the room and tiptoed down the hall to Bruce’s room.

He knocked twice, gently. “Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

He poked his head in the room. It was somehow even bigger and better than Clark’s had been. Large, plush, with a massive bed sitting against one wall. In that bed was a boy, blinking sleepily, propped up on his elbows. His hair was messy, his pyjamas rumbled.

“Clark?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“…okay?”

“Can I lie down with you?”

Bruce settled back on the bed with a sigh and buried his face in a pillow. “If you want.”

Clark rushed forward and climbed into the bed beside him. Bruce’s body was warm, his sheets silky. He cuddled up as close to him as he could. Bruce growled.

“Go to sleep, Clark.”

To Clark’s surprise. He did. Easily, with the heat and scent of his soulmate beside him.

*

It was oddly pleasant having company during the summer, even if it was just for three weeks. Normally Bruce didn’t see anyone his own age except for Kate Kane, Oliver Queen, and other wealthy children that already existed in his family’s narrow social circle, and even they only visited rarely.

Bruce didn’t care. He had no need for company.

But Clark was different. He spoke openly and honestly to Bruce, genuinely seemed interested when Bruce spoke back, and was happy to leave Bruce alone when Bruce needed his space. Except, of course, when it came time to sleep. Clark seemed incapable of staying in his own bed. It was annoying… but also… not. So Bruce allowed it and pretty soon it became almost comfortable waking up with the other boy cuddled up close beside him.

But then it happened.

Three days before Clark was due to go back to Smallville Bruce woke in the middle of the night. That wasn’t unusual. He hadn’t slept uninterrupted through a night for years, ever since his parents decided to take a short cut through a small alleyway behind the Monarch Theatre. But this was different. Something had disturbed him. Something...

His eyes found the shadow hanging above him. Large, _close_.

He scrambled back with a choked scream and fumbled for his bedside lamp.

“Bruce? Bruce!”

Bruce turned it on and saw… Clark. Clark was on the bed, blinking at him, confused. “What is it?”

“Something was… was floating over…”

“What?”

Bruce didn’t know the answer to that question. There was nothing over his bed. No shadow, no looming figure. The only odd thing was Clark, sprawled on top of the blankets instead of under them.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No. It was real.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! I…” he trailed off as he tried to recreate the scene in his mind. He was lying on the bed, right there, right where Clark was now. Something had been over him, floating…

“Turn the light off,” Clark moaned and buried his head in a pillow.

Slowly, reluctantly, Bruce obeyed. He didn’t sleep anymore that night. He stayed awake, watching, listening, deciphering.

*

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy biiirrrrrthday dear Clllllaaaark! Happy birthday to you!”

“Hip-hip!” His dad called out.

“HORAY!” Everyone cried.

“Hip-hip!”

“HORAY!”

“Hip-hip!”

“HORAY!”

Clark sat in the middle of the room, party hat on head, smiling through his blush.

Pete and Lana was there along with a spattering of other kids from school and a few of his aunts and uncles. His mum had made him a double chocolate fudge mud cake topped with peanut M&Ms, his favourite. The M&Ms were arranged to spell out ‘13’.

“Go on!” Lana called. “What are you waiting for? Blow ‘em out!”

Clark sucked in a deep breath and blew… carefully. Sometimes weird stuff happened when he blew, and his dad would be really mad if he froze another cake, especially in front of all his friends and family. But he didn’t. In fact, in his first attempt he didn’t even manage to kill a single flame.

“Stop stalling! You can blow harder than that!”

He sucked in another breath and blew again. This time he managed to reduce all the wicks to smoke.

A fourth and final ‘HORAY!’ went up. Nearby he heard the snap of a shutter as his mum captured this moment.

He grinned happily and picked up the knife.

“If it comes out dirty you have to kiss the nearest person!” Lana called out as Clark began to cut.

He looked up, wide eyed. “What? We’re doing that?”

“We _always_ do that, Clark. Don’t worry, if it stays clean you can keep yourself for your soulmate.” The look on her face told him how boring she thought that was.

Clark looked down at the messy mud cake in front of him. There was no way the knife was going to come out clean. “Do I have to?”

“Yes!”

He hesitated for a moment before pulling the knife out. It was dirty. All the kids ran away in a chorus of squeals. He felt his blush return, but it wasn’t hot and happy this time, it was prickling, and uncomfortable. Humiliated.

“Don’t worry, Clark,” his mum appeared at his side. “Come on. Give me the kiss.”

He pecked her on the check, much to Lana’s annoyance, and his relief. Once that particularly uncomfortable tradition was done he picked himself a slice and began to munch happily through it. It had been a good birthday. Not a perfect birthday. No it could never be that. Not without...

“Clark.”

He looked up in shock. Bruce was standing in front of him, looking excited. “Bruce? I thought you couldn’t come.”

“Come with me. I have something to show you.”

“What?” Clark asked.

“Just _come on_.” Bruce grabbed his sleeve and towed him through the party and out the back door. Clark was still holding his slice of cake on a paper plate. He wished he’d thought to put it down as Bruce began to drag him at a brisk jog across the paddocks. They crossed over one fence, then cut through a half grown corn field, and ducked into another paddock, startling the cows.

“Bruce! What’s going on?”

Bruce looked around, making sure they were alone before turning to him, eyes bright in the moonlight.

“You can fly.”

He stared at him. “What? No I can’t.”

“You can. I’m sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve seen it. And you said it happened when you were little in this letter.” He pulled the paper from his pocket. “You said your mum had to hold you down to stop you floating away.”

“That was a dream.”

“No it wasn’t, Clark. You can fly. And you’re going to do it now, for me.”

Clark was genuinely starting to worry about his soulmate’s mental health. “Bruce… does Alfred know you’re here?”

“What? Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not important. What’s important is _you can fly_.”

“Bruce… maybe we should go back…”

“No!” Bruce glared at him. “I’m right, I know I am.”

“People can’t fly.”

“People can’t crack stones with their little finger either but I’ve seen you do that without even noticing.”

That information silenced Clark. Bruce had known about his powers ever since they first met. Despite that they hadn’t really talked about it. He didn’t know why. They talked about everything… except for Clark’s strength and Bruce’s parents. He didn’t know why he was treating the existence of his powers as a tragedy. But he was.

“This is different.”

“No,” Bruce snarled. “It isn’t. I’ve been thinking about it for months.”

“You have?”

“Yes. And I thought of a way to prove it.” He pointed at a nearby tree. “Jump off that.”

“What? No.”

“Do it.”

“I’ll fall. I’ve fallen off that tree before.”

Bruce wasn’t swayed. “Jump. Off. That. Tree.”

“But… I have a cake—”

Bruce snatched the cake out of Clark’s hand.

“Hey…”

“I’m your soulmate. You have to do what I say.”

“That’s not a rule…”

Bruce’s glare was dark.

“Fine… but only to prove to you that you’re wrong. I can’t fly.” He made his way over to the tree and began to climb. He hadn’t been up this tree for years and it was harder to navigate through the thick twisting branches than he remembered. Bruce stayed on the ground and watched as Clark made his way to a large high branch. “Are you happy?”

“Jump,” Bruce instructed.

Gosh, he was bossy. Was he going to be bossed around by him all his life?

“Now!”

“I’m getting there!” Clark called back, sucked in a deep breath, and jumped. As expected, he fell. Really, he had no idea why Bruce thought anything different would happen. Sure, he was strong, and couldn’t get hurt, and could see through things, but that didn’t mean he could _fly_. It was ridiculous. People couldn’t fly… _wait. What is he doing?_

Bruce had rushed as if to catch him.

No! If Clark fell on Bruce from this height he’d hurt him.

“Bruce! Don’t! What are you—?”

Bruce was smiling up at him smugly… and Clark was floating in the air, a metre above Bruce, partway through his fall. He was flying. He was. Bruce was right. But how? The second he tried to concentrate on it he lost the ability. With a yelp he fell the last few feet onto Bruce.

They collapsed onto the ground in a heap.

“Bruce! Bruce? Are you okay?”

Bruce was smiling up at him. “Happy Birthday, Clark. You can fly.”

He let out a breathless laugh. “I… I guess I can…” It was a hell of a birthday gift. But, if Clark was being honest, the knowledge that gravity was just an option and not a hard rule wasn’t nearly as interesting as Bruce, below him, lying in the grass, chocolate cake smattered onto his face. He’d been holding it when Clark fell on him.

“The knife was dirty…”

Bruce frowned. “What?”

“Oh… nothing. It’s a Smallville tradition I guess…”

“You’re heavy, Clark.”

He rolled off him, embarrassed. Bruce sat up, his hair messy, but his eyes shining with satisfaction. He’d solved a puzzle and the quiet kind of joy it gave him was… beautiful to see.

“Hey Bruce?”

“What?”

“I’m really glad you’re my soulmate.”

Bruce’s smile flickered. He looked down at his hands.

“Clark I…” he trailed off. For a long time neither of them said anything. Then… “I hope you had a happy birthday.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Good news, Master Bruce. I’ve just got off the phone with the property manager. She told me she can have the power on at Wayne Manor within the hour. If you send me ahead I can clean up and—”

“I’m perfectly fine where I am, Alfred.”

“Of course sir. Silly of me to suggest moving. Why would you want to live in an award winning heritage house when we can instead stay here?”

The ‘here’ Alfred was referring to was the presidential suite of a middle ranking Gotham hotel. Loud wallpaper, overly plush carpet, and a four poster bed that looked straight off the set of a vampire themed porno. It wasn’t exactly Bruce’s style, but it was also the only place he’d found so far where he wasn’t being stalked by photographers, all eager to capture Gotham’s recently resurrected prince doing something outrageous and/or embarrassing. Preferably both.

While he’d never say it aloud, he grudgingly conceded that he may have over done it when he went into the Public Trustee office with Oliva and Shanice. But, despite their current living situation, the plan had worked. He had his fortune back and despite all the press no one had bothered to dig too deeply into his stories about wandering drunk around South East Asia for the better part of a decade.

After all, Bruce Wayne now seemed like the type of person who _would_ go on a prolonged holiday, forget to tell anyone, and return only when he found out he’d been declared dead and his estate was about to be divided up between his estranged relatives.

If he’d come back onto the scene quietly then people would have assumed he had something to hide. Journalists – _real_ journalists – might even have been curious enough to investigate further… and if they were lucky they may have found something. Being confronted in the street by people thinking he was a drunk womanizer was one thing. Being confronted about years spent training with criminal organisations was something else altogether.

“We’re safe here, Alfred.”

“Oh yes. Perfectly safe. That is, if we aren’t devoured whole by bed bugs while we sleep,” the butler said.

“You’re welcome to stay in another hotel if you prefer.”

“No, I don’t prefer. You, Master Bruce, are the owner of a perfectly nice estate. One with high walls and acres of land between you and any paparazzi that may be willing to climb a lamppost to catch you with your draws down. Honestly, your insistence on staying in these places, only to be forced to move every couple of days when inevitably we are found out, it not just ridiculous but cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“I’m an old man, Master Bruce. You might not feel the springs in these mattresses but I do. And before you suggest it again, no. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’ve let you out of my sight once and I didn’t see you again for six years.”

Bruce swallowed down the lump of guilt that rose up inside him and didn’t say anything. He was – or at least he was _attempting_ to – get some work done. A lot had gone wrong at Wayne Enterprises since he left. Not that that was really a problem. He had enough money to live comfortably for a dozen lifetimes without an income. But, he needed Wayne Enterprises to be active enough to be able to covertly import and design the items he needed for what he had planned.

“May I be so bold as to voice a theory I have?” Alfred asked.

“No, you may not.”

The butler ignored him. “I think perhaps you are avoiding places where you could be found.”

“Yes. That’s exactly the point—”

“By Mr Kent.”

Bruce fell silent.

The name on his side suddenly felt heavy. The letters etched into his skin by fate weighed down by everything he’d done… and hadn’t done. All the years of unfulfilled promises.

“I never wanted to hurt him, Alfred.”

“That may be, sir. But you did.”

“It’s better if he just forgets me.”

“You know as well as I that that was never an option.”

Bruce sighed. He turned to face him. “What would you have me do, Alfred?”

The butler’s eyes were kind. “Go home, Master Bruce. And when he comes, talk to him.”

He made it sound so simple. But then Bruce thought about Clark; the boy whose name had appeared on him when he was eleven, who had been so obviously and unquestioningly in love with him from the first moment they met, who could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes but never once hurt him, not even accidentally.

He wasn’t a farm boy who could fly anymore though. He was Superman.

And that was right. That was exactly what Clark should always have been. A hero for the world. Perfect.

But the problem had never been with Clark, had it?

He turned back to his laptop. “We’re not going anywhere, Alfred.”

The man sighed. “Very well, sir.”

It was a mistake not putting himself somewhere where Clark could find and talk to him in private. He learnt that four days later.

It was Bruce Wayne’s first official appearance since returning from the dead. He’d hoped the media attention would have died down by then. It hadn’t. In fact, it had gotten worse.

Cameras flashed at him as he walked from the car to the door. Once inside two beautiful women attached themselves to him, clearly hoping for a fun night with someone who could afford it. Then, in what was probably a poorly conceived attempt to save his job, Peterson, head of Wayne Enterprises Shipping, a division that had been mismanaged into disaster in less than three years, handed him a glass of criminally priced wine and tried to strike up a conversation about Thailand’s beaches. 

Grimly he supposed he would likely forever be known as the drunken billionaire playboy. In a way it was a good thing. No one would suspect him of anything if he was a renowned idiot.

He decided he would play along and let Lucius fire Peterson as he downed the wine in one deep swig and took another glass from a passing waiter. He was on his third drink when he saw him.

Everything in Bruce went cold.

Clark Kent was there, standing behind the press barrier. He didn’t look like Clark, not the Clark Bruce had known. He was bigger, bulkier, wearing an ugly suit with his hair combed forward. He was also watching him, bright blue eyes turned grey by a boxy pair of glasses, but undeniably fixed on him, just like when they met.

Bruce turned away. A velvet rope. That was all that was stopping Clark Kent, Superman, his soulmate, from coming over here and confronting him.

His heart was hammering and he knew Clark could hear it. _Dammit._

“…and the women too. I’ll tell you, Mr Wayne, the women there are—”

“Peterson” he interrupted the man mid-sentence. “When are they letting the press in?”

“The press? Oh. Eh. After the speech, I imagine.”

“The speech?”

As if that were some sort of signal a woman in a lavish red gown stood up on stage at the other end of the room. She thanked them all for being there tonight and promised this would be quick. _Shit_. He wasn’t ready for this. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

He needed to get out. Fast.

He escaped the clutches of Peterson and the two women, citing a sudden and urgent need to visit the bathroom. Except he didn’t go to the bathroom. He wove through the crowds and ducked out the first emergency exit he found. The night air was crisp and cool. The alleyway beyond foul smelling but mercifully empty. He jogged along it, fumbling in his pocket for his phone so he could call Alfred and tell him to bring the car around. He couldn’t find it. In fact, he couldn’t find his wallet. Or, upon further inspection, his cufflinks.

His mind flashed back to the women who had attached themselves to him. One a young red head. The other tall, dark haired, with a sly smile and seductive green eyes.

It didn’t matter. He could afford it. What was important was getting away before—

“Going somewhere, Mr Wayne?”

He stopped short, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t how this was meant to go.

Slowly, he turned to face the man he knew was there. Clark Kent, standing on the pavement behind him. He must have flown over the rooftop when he saw Bruce make his escape.

Even with the suit and glasses he still looked beautiful. Square jaw, perfect skin, hands which Bruce knew would be warm and soft, completely uncallused, shoved deep in his pockets.

“Hello Clark.”

A twitch. “Ah. So, no amnesia then?”

Bruce didn’t say anything.

“Because I thought about it long and hard, Bruce. I thought, what could he possibly tell me that would make this okay? And I realised… there was only one thing. And that would be you hit yourself on the head doing something stupid and forgot everything.”

He stayed silent.

“But I guess that would be too easy.”

“Clark. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Clark shook his head. “No. I don’t want to hear that. I want to know why. Why’d you do it? Why’d you run away? Why’d you disappear for six years?”

“I… I had to,” he tried. It sounded weak to his own ears.

“You _had_ to?”

“I needed to do something. Something I needed to do alone.”

_“What?”_

Bruce had no answer that Clark would accept.

Clark’s lipped thinned. “You know, Bruce, when you were a kid and you did this ‘not answering questions you didn’t like’ thing it was annoying, but okay. Now? Now it’s not okay. I looked for you. I spent _years_ looking for you. I _mourned_ you.”

Bruce turned his back on him and continued walking away.

“Bruce!”

He ignored him.

Clark appeared in front of him in a rush of air. “ _Talk_ to me.”

“There is nothing to say. You don’t want to hear an apology. I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

“How about an explanation?”

“It was something I needed to do alone.” He pushed past Clark and kept walking.

“How can that be it? You’re my soulmate, Bruce. You not meant to just—”

Something in Bruce snapped. For an instant all he felt was rage. Pure, irrational, raw. He spun back around.

“You don’t own me,” he snarled. “You don’t even know me. You never did. I’m not your perfect little soulmate. I don’t owe you anything.”

Clark stared at him for a long time, lips thin and face pale. “No,” he said finally, softly. “I guess you’re right. I don’t know you at all.” He turned back towards the emergency exit. Bruce watched as he opened it and stepped inside. It swung slowly. Before it shut completely Bruce saw a woman step out of the crowd, beautiful with a press badge hanging from her shoulder strap.

Her fingers laced with Clark’s.

The door closed.

And, just like that, Bruce was alone. It was what he wanted. No, more than that. It was what he _needed_. So why did he feel like he’d just had his guts ripped out with a million rusty fishhooks?

With a savage cry he spun around and punched the brick wall. He felt the skin on his fingers break and bleed. He felt the bones in his knuckles throb at the impact. It was refreshing. A physical sort of pain. Something he could compartmentalise and control. Something he was familiar with.

He leant against the wall, breathing hard.

He hadn’t lied to Clark. The last six years had been something he needed to do alone. The truth was, he hadn’t finished. He still had something he needed to become, something he was always meant to be, just like Clark had always meant to be Superman. Bruce was still missing that piece of him.

It was better this way.

No distractions.

One direction.

One purpose.

He walked along the street until he found a payphone. Old, battered, but still operational. He dialled the car’s number from memory. Alfred answered on the first ring.

“Master Bruce. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is something the matter?”

“I need you to pick me up.”

“But it’s only—”

“I have work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

They stalled. Again.

“Wait. Hold on. I’ve got it.” Clark wriggled the stick shift, jamming it back into first with an anguished screech from the gearbox. The engine roared, the car lurched forward another couple of metres, and then stopped again. Bruce could smell the clutch plate burning. “I’ll get it,” Clark promised. “Just give me a sec. Let’s see. Um. Check the mirrors first. Clutch. Break. Key…”

The car started again.

A second later it stalled again.

Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop. Get out.”

“But…” Clark looked hurt. “I wanted to go on a drive with you.”

“Fine. We’ll go on a drive. But you have to let me drive.”

Incredulously. “You can’t drive. You don’t even have a learner’s permit.”

“ _All_ you have is a learner’s permit,” Bruce reminded him. “And we’re driving around your dad’s cornfield. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a farm permit,” Clark muttered.

Bruce didn’t ask again. He clambered across the divide and pushed Clark out of the driver’s seat. The other boy reluctantly slid back the way Bruce had come until they’d swapped positions.

They were in Clark’s dad’s old truck. Getting on in years but still sturdy and well taken care of. When Bruce turned the key it roared to life and when he eased off the clutch and onto the accelerator it moved smoothly down the driveway.

Clark’s crossed his arms. “Show off.”

“Why do you even want to learn to drive?” Bruce asked as they turned onto the dirt track leading along the edge of the cornfield. “You can run faster than this thing could ever go.”

“Well… maybe some days I don’t want to have to run.”

Bruce switched to second gear.

“My dad said if I can make it to my fifteenth birthday without crashing he’ll give this truck to me. Isn’t that cool?”

“If you want a nice car I’ll buy you one.”

“Hey! Old Blue is nice. She may be a little rusty but—”

“If ‘Old Blue’ is so nice why isn’t your dad driving it anymore?”

“He’s got New Red now.”

Bruce switched to third gear.

“Where’d you learn how to drive anyway?” Clark asked, suddenly suspicious. “Has Alfred been teaching you? I didn’t think you could drive on the East Coast until you were sixteen.”

“I have studied the process extensively.”

“What do you mean ‘studied’?”

He switched to forth gear.

“I mean I studied.” A pause. “This is my first practical application of those studies.”

He switched to fifth.

Clark’s eyes went wide. “You’ve never driven before?! Bruce! No! Stop! We should—!”

“I have perfect control of the vehicle.”

“We’re going really fast!”

“Have you only just noticed?” His foot on the accelerator was getting lower and lower. The cornfield was on the left side of the car, the occasional hanging leaf smacking against Bruce’s window. A wooden fence was on the right, the pilings going by faster and faster.

Bruce realised, somewhat absently, that he was grinning. Wild, savage.

There was a turn coming up. A sharp one.

“Bruce?!”

Bruce ignored him. He could do this. He knew he could. He reached for the gear stick. Right when his fingers were about to close on it everything disappeared in a rush of air, sharp and painfully cold after the heated cab. He blinked in shock at Clark, who was holding him.

“Are you okay?”

“What…?”

They were outside on the dirt track beside the cornfield. Before them Bruce watched the truck, now driverless, veer into the fence, bounce off with a shattering of glass, and spin to a stop in the cornfield, badly dented, and missing a headlight.

The driver door was open. Clark had pulled him out of the car. He’d…

A red hot surge of anger rushed through him. Bitter and overwhelming. Bruce shoved Clark off him.

“Hey… Bruce…”

“I had it under control. I _told_ you I had it under control!”

“You weren’t slowing down.”

“I was about to!”

“I was scared, Bruce! You’re not like me. You would have gotten hurt.”

“I had it under control,” he said again and turned to stride back towards the farmhouse.

“Bruce. Please.” Clark tried to take his hand.

Bruce snatched it back. “Don’t touch me.”

Clark made a small hurt sound but didn’t try to take Bruce’s hand. They walked back to the farmhouse in silence. There were only a few metres between them, but in that moment that gulf felt like it yawned for miles.

That night, as Bruce lay in bed, Clark snuck into his room.

“Are you still angry at me?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

“I told Mum and Dad I crashed the car. They’re pretty disappointed.”

“You didn’t need to do that. I told you I’d pay for it.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want you to do that. It’s my fault anyway. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

Bruce looked at him. Even in the dim light of the room his eyes were shining. Bright, blue, earnest.

Ignorant. He didn’t know why he was apologising. He didn’t know, didn’t _really_ know, what he’d done wrong. That realisation turned the ember of anger inside him to ash. Cold, bleak, and useless.

“Yeah,” Bruce rasped, feeling the tension drain out of his limbs. “I forgive you.”

Clark grinned. Earnest and happy. “Thank you Bruce.” He leant forward to press a kiss on Bruce’s forehead. Quick and chaste.

It was the first time Clark had ever kissed him and the contact make his skin tingle warm. But inside he was still cold. Because, even though he’d forgiven Clark, he’d learnt something about him today. Something he couldn’t unlearn.

Clark didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust him when he told him he was in control. He didn’t trust him not to break. Clark thought he was irrational, suicidal maybe. Someone in need of saving. And Bruce hated that, with every fibre of his being, even as another smaller part of him wondered… maybe… just maybe… was Clark right?

*

When Bruce started high school he was enrolled into Westworth Academy, an elite boarding school which had been hosting the Wayne family sons for generations. At first Clark was happy for him. The photos looked really cool. There was a sailing club, a polo team, and enough spooky spires that he was sure Bruce would feel right at home. But then, three months after Bruce had started living there, Clark learnt the school didn’t break for winter. Bruce wouldn’t be able to come to the Kent Farm for Christmas.

Clark locked himself in his room and sulked for days. He hadn’t spent a Christmas without Bruce since they met. Most of the time Alfred and Bruce came to the farm. The house always felt so full and happy with both of them in it. Last year they’d all gone to Wayne Manor instead. Clark remembered gaping in wonder at the size of the Christmas tree Alfred had somehow managed to set up in the main foyer and how small the presents had looked under it. He’d flown up to put the star on top. Bruce had worn the sweater his Mum had knitted for him. Alfred and his Dad had stayed up late reminiscing together.

It had been magical.

The idea of not having that this year was like a kick to the gut.

“Clark,” his Mum tried to console him. “You’ll see him in summer. It’s okay.”

His father had been a little less sympathetic. “You’re lucky, Clark. Most people your age haven’t even met their soulmates. You have your whole lives to spend together. You’ll survive a holiday or two apart.”

The rational part of his brain knew his dad was right. Still, as they set up the decorations, it felt hollow knowing Bruce wouldn’t see them. Would he even want to? He was probably having heaps of fun at the Academy, hanging out with all the other rich boys, none of which had Bruce’s name on them. But would that matter? They were young and Bruce had been kinda distant with him lately. What would happen if one of the sailing club or the polo team cornered Bruce under some mistletoe? Would Bruce say no?

Would Bruce tell him if he didn’t?

Clark had a sudden urge to run all the way to that stupid Academy, burst in through a wall, and carry Bruce home. It was stupid, he knew, not to mention all sorts of illegal, but… Bruce was his soulmate. He _should_ be here.

He debated sending a letter to Bruce telling him all this. In the end he settled with a Christmas card with ‘missing you’ written in the bottom.

His mood didn’t approve in the week leading up to Christmas. Not even hanging out with his friends helped. Lana and Pete had been soulmates since before they were soulmates, always shoulder to shoulder, sharing inside jokes, and holding hands. Normally that didn’t bother him. Just then, he couldn’t stand it.

By the time Christmas came not even the blanket of pristine white snow could raise his mood.

He opened his presents, hugged his parents, and played with the dogs. After dinner his family stayed up late playing the fishing board game his Mum had bought him. So far he was losing, his Dad was winning, and his Mum was getting weirdly competitive about it. When the fire started to get low he volunteered to go outside and get more wood.

It was out there, trudging through the snow, on his way back from the barn, an armful of firewood in his arms, when it happened.

He heard a heartbeat. Close. Familiar. It was accompanied by footsteps.

He looked up in shock and saw Bruce, wrapped in a too thin for Kansas jacket, walking up the driveway towards the house.

“Bruce?”

The boy stopped and squinted up at him, near blind in the darkness. He had a black eye.

Clark dropped the wood and rushed to his side. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said and shuddered. “Sorry I missed Christmas.”

“No! You didn’t. It’s still Christmas. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wasn’t.”

“What happened? What about school?”

A wry smile snaked across the boy’s features. “Pretty sure I’ve been expelled.”

“What happened?”  
  


“A disagreement.”

“A disagreement?” Clark echoed in disbelief. “Bruce. You have a black eye.” Not to mention a hell of a lot of other bruises now that Clark took a closer look.

Bruce’s smile stretched and a strange wild light shone in his eye. “You should see the other guy.”

Clark studied him. “Alfred doesn’t know you’re here does he?”

“He’ll figure it out.” Bruce moved to step around him and continue towards the house.

Clark grabbed his arm and held him still.

“I’m cold,” Bruce told him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just… I… I was thinking about your school and you making friends and…”

“Do I look like I’ve been making friends?”

He didn’t. “That’s not the point. It made me realise there is something we haven’t done yet,” Clark pushed on.

“What?”

Clark opened his mouth to say something, hesitated.

“Clark. I’m _cold_.”

“Yes. I… I’m sorry I… I just… I really need to…” and then he did it. Before he could reconsider, before he could regret, before his mother or father could open the door and ruin everything, he grabbed Bruce’s face, leant forward, and pressed their lips together. It was his first kiss - _their_ first kiss – and he wasn’t sure what he was doing but he was determined for it not to be a failure. He needed Bruce to know he loved him. They were soulmates. This was where they should both be. With each other, loving each other, together.

When he pulled back Bruce was frowning, his eyes down.

“S-sorry,” Clark whispered. “That was dumb. I should have asked. I should have—”

Bruce pulled him forward and reconnected their lips. It was a simple kiss. No open mouths, no tongues, no little nibbles or licks like he’d seen in the movies. Just a press of lip on lip. But the fierceness of Bruce’s grip on him, the way he tilted his head, the hard almost angry _press_ of his lips… it was a thousand times better than anything artful or adult could have been.

When they parted Clark just stared at him. Beautiful. He was so beautiful. Even with the black eye and fat crumbs of fresh snow in his hair. He was the most beautiful boy Clark had ever seen. His soulmate. His Bruce.

“I missed you too,” Bruce whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm moving countries in a few days. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get another chapter out before then or not or when I'll be able to write again once I'm there. If there is a bit of delay in the coming chapters that'll be why. :-)


	6. Chapter 6

It was an old tradition to cover the soulmark of someone who had died, practised by Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike. Clark had never considered himself religious, he believed there were powers out there he didn’t and couldn’t understand, the existence of soulmates alone was evidence enough of that, but he wasn’t sure those beliefs aligned with any faith. Despite that, he’d been wrapping up Bruce’s name for years. It just felt right. A way to honour what was lost while also giving him the space and the freedom to move on from it. From _him_.

But now, seeing his arm covered in cloth, he felt like a liar, a cheat. He felt like the worst sort of person. The kind of person who would go to a grief circle for people who’d lost soulmates and cry when, on the other side of the planet, the man who was meant to be his sipped martinis and got his cock sucked by beautiful women with flowers in their hair.

It wasn’t his fault, the rational part of Clark’s brain knew. He hadn’t known. Bruce was the liar, not him. But, even so, he felt guilty.

Not just for being in spaces which weren’t for him, but also for his relationship with Lois.

They had met at work but hadn’t really gotten to known each other until she’d seen the bandage on his arm and showed him the near matching cloth she had knotted around her calf. After that they’d gone to dinner, drunk enough wine that even Clark felt it, and talked about their soulmates in a way the people at the grief circle never did.

They talked about them as if they were still alive.

Lois told him ‘E’ – they never used full names, he wasn’t sure why – was nothing like she’d imagined her soulmate would be like. She was shy, sweet, and preferred cooking cakes over climbing into air vents to listen in to secret meetings between their parents. If she hadn’t become a reporter, Clark thought, Lois would have made one hell of a super spy. But, despite their differences and the frustration those differences sometimes caused, Lois had loved her soulmate. Deeply, honestly, and openly.

Clark told her about ‘B’. About how he was smart, a little strange sometimes, but perfect despite it. He told her how they met, about the years they spent together, and all the plans he’d had for their future.

He’d had sex with Lois that night. It was the first time he’d sex with someone other than Bruce and he spent an hour in the shower afterward she left feeling guilty. But, once he’d gotten over that, his relationship with Lois had been wonderful. They weren’t soulmates, but they didn’t pretend to be. There was no promises of perfection, just togetherness, and that was enough.

More than enough. It filled a void in him he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying around.

But now Bruce was back.

And he needed to tell Lois.

She knew something was wrong. He’d known that ever since their trip to Gotham. He’d convinced her to let him come along on her hunt of the eccentric resurrected billionaire Bruce Wayne. It had taken days. Bruce, it seemed, was good at not being found.

But Clark knew that already, didn’t he?

When they’d finally cornered him in a fundraiser Clark’s feelings of betrayal and anger had stirred from a smoulder to a fire. Bruce looked exactly as he had on the news report. Surrounded by women, flushed from drinking, and looking around absently as a suited man tried to strike up conversation with him.

Looking at him Clark could barely reconcile him with the pale faced boy that used to runaway to his family farm.

But then Bruce had seen him and the flash of recognition in those bright silver eyes had almost been too much to bare. Clark barely stopped himself from ripping him out of that stupid expensive party and demanding answers that instant. As it turned out, he didn’t need to. About two seconds after seeing him Bruce tried to escape. He almost had. If Clark hadn’t been able to slip away from the reporters as quickly as he did Bruce would have gotten away.

After the conversation in the alleyway Clark almost wished he had.

“Bruce Wayne?” Lois echoed. “Bruce Wayne is your soulmate?”

They were sitting on the sofa in Clark’s apartment. It had taken him four days to pluck up the courage to finally have this conversation.

“Lois. I didn’t know he was alive,” Clark whispered. “I swear. I didn’t.”

She was staring at him. Brows down, eyes shining with disbelief. “Bruce Wayne? The arsehole we spent last week chasing? That’s _‘B’_?”

“Yes.”

“You told me he was quiet. _Smart_. Not…”

Slowly Clark unwound the bandage on his arm until his soulmark was exposed.

Bruce Wayne. Small, spikey, but unmistakable.

For a long time neither of them said anything.

When Clark couldn’t take the silence anymore he spoke. “This doesn’t change anything. I love you. I do. That’s all that matters.”

“Clark,” Lois said softly. “He’s your soulmate.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clark said, desperate for it to be true. “He lied to me. He let me think he was dead. For _years_. We’ve known each other since we were eleven but… but I never knew him at all. The boy I loved would never have done that, to anyone.”

“Clark.”

“I don’t want to be with him. I want to be with you.”

“He’s your soulmate,” she said again, firmer this time, as if that was the end of the conversation, as if that was the only possible outcome of the equation.

“No. He’s not. Not anymore. He left me. He made that choice.”

“Do you love him?”

“He _left_ , Lois. He left me, his family, _everything_. He left, let me think he was dead for years, and he won’t even tell me why. How can I love him after that?”

“I don’t know. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“Lois I… I…”

She was looking at him, a strange sad light in her eye. “Clark,” her voice was barely more than a whisper. “You can’t stay with me.”

“Lois. Please. I don’t want him. I want you. I want—”

“ _I_ can’t stay with you,” she amended. “I know you love me. I love you. And I know he hurt you… but he’s your soulmate. I can’t just… I can’t stay with you and spend my life waiting for the day you stop being angry and realise how much you need him in your life.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Maybe not. But I can’t take that risk. You have to understand, Clark. I can’t… I can’t be with you. Not now. I couldn’t bare it.”

“Lois. _Please_ I—”

“I never told you what happened to my soulmate,” Lois said.

Clark fell silent.

“Emily was her name. She died in a car crash when we were seventeen. She was coming to see me.”

He opened his mouth to say something. She held up a hand, stopping him.

“I spent years wondering ‘what if’. What if I’d driven to her house instead of insisting she come to mine? What if we’d agreed to meet up a day earlier? What if we hadn’t met until we were adults and both competent drivers?” Her eyes were sad but sure. “I would give anything for another chance, Clark. If that meant she was a liar who disappeared all these years then I’d take that. I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

“Lois. You don’t understand. He doesn’t want me.”

“When fate writes those names on us it’s not a promise, it’s a prayer, and not all prayers are answered. I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know why he left. But I think… I think you need to wait. Give him time. Talk to him, if you can. And, if he really doesn’t want anything to do with you… well… find someone who can withstand the heartbreak if he and you ever change your minds. But I can’t. I’ve had my heart broken once. I can’t be with you like this. Not with that name on you.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to push back against what she was telling him. But he knew he couldn’t. To do so would not just be insulting it would be spitting on the grave of her soulmate.

“I’m sorry,” Lois whispered. “I really am.”

She stood, picked up her bag, and without another word, left.

He stared after her, numb, the bandage that had been around his arm a tangled heap in his lap. Bruce’s lie exposed.

Clark wanted to cry. He felt the tears in his eye, burning and sharp. But they didn’t spill.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Then four.

Then eight.

Finally, as the sun rose over the city, Clark rose from the sofa and grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk. He stared at the blank sheet for a long time before he began writing.

_Bruce._

_You need to talk to me. You’re my soulmate, so we have to work this out, somehow. I don’t know how. I don’t know how I can ever forgive you for what you put me through. But we need to try._

He signed it the way he signed everything. _Clark J. Kent._

He folded it up, shoved it in an envelope, and penned in the address of Wayne Manor. He dropped the letter in the post box on the way to work. Three days later a letter arrived on his doorstep, wedged between his power bill and a menu from a new Vietnamese restaurant down the road. He stared at the envelope for a long time.

Simple, white, with a stamp of Metropolis skyline stuck crooked in the corner. He’d put that stamp there. This was the letter he sent, unopened, with ‘Return to Sender’ printed across it in bold red letters.

So that was it.

Bruce didn’t want anything to do with him.

He’d returned from the dead, destroyed the only good thing Clark had managed to piece together in the wake of his disappearance, and now wasn’t even giving him the courtesy of talking to him. He shouldn’t be surprised. It just confirmed what he’d already learnt in that filthy Gotham alleyway.

He picked up the letter and threw it in the bin.

He hesitated a long time before throwing the bandage he’d been wearing for the last few years away too. He wouldn’t wear Bruce’s lie anymore. He wouldn’t disrespect the memory of Lois’ soulmate, or the other truly dead soulmates, no matter how itchy and uncomfortable it felt to have his arm exposed, or how angry and hurt he felt seeing the name there.

But, despite what Lois said, he wasn’t going to wait in hope either.

Bruce Wayne was alive but the boy he knew, the boy he loved, his _soulmate_ , was dead.


	7. Chapter 7

It was one of those really hot summers. The kind that turns that days lazy and the nights sleepless. Clark loved it. He loved the long hot days, he loved the feel of sunlight on his skin, he loved how _alive_ it made him feel.

Bruce… well… Bruce was different. He made no secret of his hatred for heat and light. He hardly emerged during the day and when he did he was cranky and unapproachable. Clark’s mother could barely convince him to eat anything and Clark’s father only managed to get him talking when he promised to let Bruce help him fix the car. Bruce, Clark was starting to realise, liked cars. A lot. Fast cars especially, though he wasn’t immune to the appeal of a sturdy truck either.

Clark didn’t mind. Despite not having much of an interest himself he quite liked watching Bruce, on his back under the car, frowning, sweat spotting his forehead. In fact, he quite liked watching Bruce full stop. Over the summer he’d spent most of his time watching Bruce in a way he didn’t really remember doing last summer.

He watched the way he moved, the way he stood, the way his clothes fell off his frame.

It was weirdly… mesmerising.

And maybe he was imagining it… but he thought he caught Bruce watching him more intently too. When he was stretching, when he was laughing, and once, a very long and deliberate look landed on him, when he lifted the truck for his dad.

It wasn’t like he was completely ignorant of what those looks meant. Ever since Christmas he and Bruce and been growing closer in a new and decidedly fascinating way. Their kisses had been getting more frequent and, a few weeks ago, when Bruce had first arrived in Smallville for the summer break, they’d even kissed horizontally for the first time while lying on the sofa together.

It had been amazing. In fact, Clark was pretty sure it was the best most amazing thing that had ever happened to him, except for meeting Bruce of course. But then Bruce had grunted and pushed him away.

“I’m sweating,” he’d muttered.

“So?”

“I feel gross. It’s too hot. I don’t want to cuddle or kiss when it’s like this.”

So, for the first time in Clark’s life, he found himself wishing the sun would take a freaking break. But it didn’t. And thus, a few days before Bruce was due to go back to Gotham for school, plan B was born.

It was after dinner, his parents were in the kitchen, making icecream. Everything was quiet, peaceful, and perfect. He snuck into Bruce’s room, hovering over the squeaky floorboards, and found him slumped across the mattress, still sweating.

“Hey. How are you?”

A grunt was all he got in reply.

“Want to go swimming?”

Bruce frowned. “The sun is down.”

“So? I thought you liked the dark.”

“Where would we go swimming?”

“The cow paddock dam.”

“That thing? The cows drink out of it.”

“It’s clean water, Bruce. Don’t be a prude. Besides, it’ll be cool.”

Bruce’s eyes were sharp. Piecing.

“Do your parents know?”

“No.”

Without another word Bruce rolled off the bed, walked to the window, opened it, and climbed out into the night.

It took Bruce only ten seconds to climb near silently down the drainpipe. Clark just floated down, a little ashamed that he knew he wouldn’t have been able to move as quickly and stealthy as Bruce if he’d tried. But then they were running across the paddocks, cutting through the lingering heat, and all feelings aside from excitement melted away.

When they got there they both stripped off to their underwear and wadded in. Bruce dived down the second it was deep enough to, as quick and powerful in water as a shark. Clark felt like a hippo in comparison. But it didn’t matter. The water wasn’t exactly cold. It had spent all day sitting in the sun, but it was cool enough to leech away the sticky edge of the heat. After a few minutes even Clark was starting to feel refreshed.

He stood near the edge of the dam and watched Bruce swim. Diving, surfacing, and diving again. Swift, sleek, and powerful. Finally, he surfaced, planted his feet on the bottom, and wiped the water off his face with his hand. Clark let himself take in the sight. Bruce was beautiful. That had always been true. But it was different now. Now he was also wet and wearing nothing but underwear. The soulmark on his ribs was on full display. _Clark J Kent_. His mark. Their bond.

Bruce caught Clark looking. He began wading through the water towards him.

“Hey,” Clark said as Bruce drew abreast with him.

“Hey,” Bruce echoed. Bruce’s eyes were dark and hooded. His hair slicked back. His pale skin shining in the moonlight.

Clark swallowed. “Feeling cooler?” He asked.

“No.”

The water wasn’t that deep. Not really. Even in the centre of the dam Clark could stand with his head and shoulders in the air and still sink his feet into the mud at the bottom. But they weren’t in the centre of the dam. They were on the edge. The water level at their hips.

Bruce was standing close to him. Very close.

“Um… Bruce?”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll visit again in ten weeks.”

“I know but I feel like we haven't really…”

Without a word Bruce took Clark’s wrist, pulled his arm towards him, and ran the tips of his fingers along his soulmark on Clark’s inner arm. Clark shivered.

“You like that?”

“Yes,” Clark whispered. _“Yes.”_

Slowly, languidly, Bruce bent down and ran his tongue across the soulmark on Clark’s inner arm, tasting his own name.

Clark’s shiver turned into a violent shudder. “B—Bruce I—”

He felt like all the cells in his body were loose and buzzing with electricity. He felt like they were going to fly away at any second and he was going to come apart. He also felt a more familiar sort of feeling coil at the base of his cock. Heat, tightness, need.

“Bruce? Are we…? Is this…?”

Bruce drew back. His eyes were stark and silver. His face unreadable. He took Clark’s hand and silently guided it to the familiar signature on his side. Clark had never touched Bruce’s soulmark before. It didn’t feel any different from the skin either side of it. Soft, warm, and utterly perfect. He ran his fingers along it, tracing it, and watched as Bruce’s eyes fluttered close for a moment, lips parted as he inhaled.

The heat between Clark’s legs was spreading now, growing. He was glad for the murky water concealing him.

“C-can I do what you did?” He asked, feeling both foolish and so fucking in love it hurt. “Can I lick you there?”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He just raised his arm, offering his side.

Clark sunk to his knees in the water. That simple action, kneeling before Bruce, was so much hotter than it had any right to be. God he wanted… he wasn’t sure what he wanted. But he wanted it with every fibre of his being. He leant forward and licked the soulmark, slowly, nervously. Bruce made a small sound and tipped his head back.

And that was the moment Clark realised they were going to have sex. They’d never had sex before. The closest they’d ever come was kissing horizontal on the sofa after a movie. But that was what Bruce wanted. That was what the strange look in his eye meant. That was why his hand was tangling in Clark’s hair, holding him as Clark slowly, tentatively, giving Bruce time to pull away, let his tongue trail along his signature, tracing every inch of it. When he’d finished he didn’t stop. He kept licking, softly, slowly, around to Bruce’s belly, white and concaved. That was met with another small sound, even more beautiful than the first.

When Clark looked up Bruce was watching him. Brows pulled just a little closer together than usual, breathing just a little faster, cheeks just a little pinker. So beautiful. He was so fucking beautiful.

His. This was his soulmate. The man that he would spend his life with. They’d get married, have kids, and it would be perfect because Bruce was perfect, every fucking inch of him.

He’d pulled one hell of a lottery ticket.

He kissed Bruce, right above his navel.

Bruce swallowed. The hand in Clark’s hair grew tighter.

Taking that as encouragement Clark kissed him again, lower. And again, lower. And again…

The water was at Bruce’s hips. But that didn’t matter. Clark had always been good at holding his breath. He sunk below the surface and, as he did so, pulled Bruce’s underwear down. Bruce’s cock floated free, as pale as the rest of him and already hard. Clark studied it for a moment, marvelling at the long elegant curve, the folds of foreskin, the way the head pushed through.

He was scared. But that feeling was small beside everything else raging through him. He let his hands rest on Bruce’s thighs, hardness under soft skin, and leant forward to taste him.

The sound of Bruce’s gasp was muffled by the water. Clark heard it anyway.

He let it encourage him as he took Bruce deeper into his throat and began to move in a way he’d seen people do for as long as he could look through walls. And Bruce… _oh Bruce_ … he moved with him. Digging his fingers into Clark’s hair and pulling him forward at the same time he trust his hips.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, inelegant, and at some point Clark realised he’d inhaled water and it didn’t hurt or panic him in the slightest. That should’ve worried him. It should have made him stop. But he didn’t. He just clung to Bruce and tried everything he could think of to make this experience better for him. He licked, he sucked, he kept a steady solid rhythm until…

Bruce grunted. Clark’s heart thudded in his chest, louder than all the world. He could taste him. Thick, salty, and wonderful. But not as wonderful as Bruce who was slumping boneless down into the water with him. Clark caught him and surfaced to press a desperate and shaking kiss on his face.

“Bruce… Bruce I… God… Bruce…”

The other boy smiled at him, sleepy and sated, and kissed Clark back, on the lips. The kiss quickly opened, deepened, and then he had another part of Bruce in his mouth. That tongue rasping lazily against his was somehow even more amazing than the blowjob had been.

He wasn’t sure how long they kissed. It felt like a long time… but it also felt like no time at all. Eventually Bruce reached down and cupped Clark through his underwear.

Clark shook, smiled… but then he heard it.

A soft voice.

“Clark?”

That was his dad. He was still in the house, away across the paddocks, but that didn’t matter. Clark heard him as loud as if he were there.

“Clark? Clark! Where are you? Your mother’s made some icecream.”

“Bruce is gone too,” he heard his mother say, footsteps thudding as loud as an elephant’s on the stairs.

“Are they having a picnic in the back yard?”

“Jon. They haven’t done that since they were twelve.”

“Where would they be then?”

“If I had three guesses? The barn, the old truck, or the dam.”

“Why?”

He could almost hear the look his mother gave his father. “Why do you think, Jon? They’re sixteen.”

A long pause.

“I’ll check the barn,” he heard his mother say.

“I’ll go to the dam,” his father promised, voice deep and concerned.

Clark pulled back from Bruce with a gasp. “We have to go.”

Bruce frowned. “Why?”

“Come on,” he grabbed Bruce’s wrist and towed him out of the water. They staggered up the muddy bank and began pulling on their clothes.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asked.

“Shh! It’s okay. Come on.” Clark took his hand again when he was dressed and the two of them began running across the paddock, back through the cornfield, towards the house.

In hindsight he realised what he was doing was silly. His parents already knew they’d left the house. Running back there, wet and covered in mud, would only make things worse. What he should have done was find a blanket and lie on it with Bruce somewhere near to the house like they used to do when they were kids. Then they could plead innocence. But, at the time, he didn’t think of that. All he could think was to get back into the house before his parents found him. Maybe then he could make up some sort of excuse. Maybe then he wouldn’t be in trouble. Maybe then…

They burst out of the cornfields. The house stood before them. It would only take a few seconds to run to the back door.

There was only one problem. His mum was standing between them and the back door.

“A little late for a walk, don’t you think, boys?”

“You…” Clark felt betrayed. “You were going to check the barn.” Only then did he realise his father was also there, leaning up against the apple tree, watching, not on the path to the dam.

“Clark,” his mother sounded disappointed. “We’re your _parents_. Do you really think we haven’t figured out that you listen in… even when you’re not supposed to?”

That long pause. The long pause he’d heard between them realising he was missing and making the plans to search for him. They could have been writing stuff down… or signing. He knew they both knew basic sign language.

Clark was blushing. Hard and hot.

“Go inside,” his dad said. “Get yourselves cleaned up and get to bed.”

“But—”

“Nope. Not a word,” his mum told him.

Clark’s mouth snapped shut. He bowed his head, fighting back the humiliation, and slowly walked back into the house under the watchful eyes of his parents. Bruce followed along behind him but peeled off to go to the shower when Clark’s mum gently prompted him to.

Clark stayed where he was. Muddy and ashamed.

Why had he run back like that? Why had he been so stupid? They could have just stayed that and pretended to be swimming. Even that was better. Running home when he heard what they said was a louder admission of guilt than anything else could have been.

He might as well have yelled ‘hey Ma! Pa! Guess what?! I just lost my virginity!’

His mum threw a couple of towels down on the sofa and sat him down. Then, to his surprise, she gave him a bowl of icecream. “You’re not in trouble,” she told him softly.

“I’m not?”

“No.” Her eyes were kind… but serious. “But we’re going to need to talk.”

Oh… oh no.

*

Bruce sat in the shower, tepid water streaming over his shoulders and stared at his slowly pickling fingers. He felt numb. No, not just numb, he felt angry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kill.

Because he loved Clark. He really did. Deep in his bones. It was a feeling that burnt like magma in his veins.

He wasn’t sure when that had happened. It wasn’t love at first sight for him the way it was for Clark. He wasn’t sure he even loved Clark a year ago. He’d liked him, cared about him deeply, but it wasn’t… this. This burning aching longing to be close to, to be touched by, to care for. Love. It had to be. Painful, twisted, but there. And that should make it better. It should make everything better. But it didn’t. They’d just had sex and… and it was wonderful… until it hadn’t been… and he… he was starting to run out of options.

Clark was his soulmate. And he was a good soulmate. A perfect soulmate. Even if he didn’t trust Bruce. Even if he dragged him away without even telling him what was going on. Even if he thought Bruce was something Bruce was, could never be.

_Perfect._

Bruce felt something surge inside him. Unnatural and wrong. He threw back the shower curtain, staggered across the bathroom floor, and collapsed down by the toilet just as he emptied what little was in his stomach into the bowl. It hurt, but that didn’t matter.

When he was done he rested his forehead against the toilet and closed his eyes.

He could do this. He could. Clark was his soulmate. He cared about him. He loved him. He could… figure out a way.

*

“We understand he is your soulmate, and you’re sixteen now. It’s natural to want to experiment, to be together. But, your father and I wanted to make sure you were being safe.”

Clark’s face was burning red. The bowl of icecream was shaking in his hands. “Ma!”

“Quiet Clark. This is important. I know you’re young, but that is no reason not to be careful.”

“We weren’t… it was just… we were just swimming.” It was a flimsy lie.

His mother wasn’t fooled or derailed. “Do you have condoms? Do you know how to use them?”

“No. We’re not… it’s not like that.”

“Clark,” his father looked about as uncomfortable as Clark felt. “I know this is an awkward time, and your mother’s right. If you want to do that sort of thing you should be safe. But… I just also wanted to say… have you considered… waiting?”

“Waiting?”

“You don’t have to do this now. I hope you know that.”

“I know… it’s not… it’s not _like_ that. No one’s _forcing_ us to do anything.”

“Good,” his mum continued. “That’s very good. But I also wanted to remind you, you’re _very_ strong. When I say ‘be careful’ I’m not just talking about using protection. You have to make sure you don’t hurt him. If you two are going to try penetrative sex—”

Clark wished he was seventy billion miles away. He wished he was a tree or something that would never have to experience a conversation like this. He wished he could run outside, smack his head on a rock, and forget the last ten minutes of his life.

“—then I think it’s important that you have all the information and resources you need to make sure that goes as well as it can. Do you know about lube? Have you got lube?”

Maybe if he found a _really_ big rock. Maybe if he hit his head on it hard enough to split it in too. Maybe then…

“You’re sixteen,” his father cut in, almost desperately. “ _Barely_. There is no harm in waiting.” His eyes were pleading. “I know it’s old fashioned. And I know I can’t stop you if you want to do… that. But consider waiting. Please. He’s your soulmate. He’s not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy leap day. :-)


	8. Chapter 8

_It didn’t work._

Bruce shoved open the front door of Wayne Manor and staggered into the foyer. It was large, dimly yet elegantly lit, and filled with strange pleasant scents. From the other room he heard laughter, soft and airy, breaking up the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. He ignored it and strode instead for the stairs, hauling himself clumsily upwards, feet weighed down by heavy black boots. There was blood on those boots. Some of it was his. Some of it wasn’t.

_All those years._

He reached the upper landing and stumbled deeper into the house, pushing through doors, tripping over ornate rugs. At one point he knocked a decorative vase to the floor. It shattered, the sound sharp and painful in his ears. He didn’t care.

_None of it mattered._

He didn’t know where he was going until he arrived. It was a part of the house that Alfred hadn’t fixed up yet. Cold and dusty, the walls lined with leather backed books, the furniture hidden under white sheets. His father’s study, unchanged from when Thomas Wayne used to work here.

_Nothing mattered._

Bruce left bloody footprints across the carpet as he made his way to the far wall, flung back the curtains and opened the window. The cold air was biting and blew aside a nearby sheet, revealing a liquor cabinet. There were still a few bottles in there. He picked out one at random and fell into the nearby lounge chair. Defeated, angry, and already tipping the alcohol down his throat. It burnt. Bitter and foul, like poison. He drank more.

_He’d failed._

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce didn’t look up. Kept drinking.

“Sir. Your absence is beginning to be noticed. Were you thinking of perhaps joining the party or—?”

“Get those people out of my house.”

Quietly. “They’re your friends, sir. It’s your birthday.”

“I said, get them the _fuck_ out of my house.”

“Master Bruce. I am sure—”

Bruce threw the bottle across the room at the butler. It shattered on the wall beside him. Alfred didn’t flinch but something in his face shifted. Some small sympathetic light. “Very well, sir. I will see them out.” He exited the room and just like that Bruce was alone with… with…

His father. His father was there. Bruce wasn’t sure where but he knew he was. Around him the white sheets loomed. Ghosts in the darkness. He lurched to his feet and yanked them down revealing sofas, tables, chairs, a globe, and an ottoman. Finally, he found him. His father. A stone bust, sitting on a sturdy pillar, glare cold.

Bruce collapsed to the ground in front of it. Shaking. Dimly he was aware he was bleeding. There was a knife in his side.

“Father.”

His father glared down at him. Cold. Unforgiving.

“I… I tried. I tried really hard. I…”

He closed his eyes as the last few years flashed through his mind. The training, the fighting, the surviving. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He’d left Clark, he’d hurt him, and it didn’t matter. He’d failed.

There were tears in his eyes now. “I’m sorry father. I… I can’t. I can’t do this. They weren’t afraid of me. They weren’t—”

_“Who the fuck are you?”_

_“Yeah. Nice body armour weirdo.”_

_“Think you’re some sort of ninja or something?”_

And then, afterwards.

_“Do you want money? We’ll give you money.”_

_“Just leave us alone! We’re just some guys. Just like you!”_

_“Yeah. What the fuck, man.”_

It was a stupid childish fantasy. Why did he ever think he could save this city? Why did he ever think he could save himself? Why did he ever think he could scare people into another life? That was the dreams of an eight year old. An eight year old with dead parents and no friends. They weren’t scared of him. Why should they be? He was just like them. Just another guy on the streets out to hurt people. A bad guy.

And when he’d realised that’s all he was, when he’d let his guard down, they’d sunk a blade in between the plates of his armour.

The bust was staring down at him. Condemning.

“I… I don’t… I don’t know what to do… Please I…”

A sound. Small but undeniable in the still darkness.

He turned his head and something flew at his face. He ducked down, limbs weak from blood loss and alcohol, and swivelled to see what it was. When he did he flung himself back. It was a bat. Large, ugly, with massive leathery wings, sitting on the bust of his father. The rational part of his brain knew it must have come in the open window. It was lost, probably scared… but then it looked at him, eyes small white lights in the darkness… and Bruce realised he was shying back… scared. Just like the criminals he’d fought tonight weren’t.

It was just a bat. Just a bat. He knew that.

But it didn’t matter. Because it was dark. Because it was watching him. Because his mind had transformed something he rationally knew he could defeat into something… else.

His father was still staring at him, stone face shadowed by the bat’s wings.

“Yes father…” Bruce whispered. “Yes… I shall become a bat.”

*

_It worked._

They were scared of him. They fled from him. They told stories about him. Some said he was a vampire, others said he was a demon, and a few said he was a manic in a cheap Halloween bat costume. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the number of criminals openly patrolling gang controlled areas of the city plummeted. The number of random assaults dropped as well. As did drug trafficking, human trafficking, and robberies.

The media noticed before the GCPD.

Bruce sat in the kitchen and watched as a cluster of reporters talked to a red faced Commissioner, Gillian B. Loeb.

“—utter nonsense. There is no such thing as a Bat-Man. This is simply a case of mass hysteria. Credit for cleaning up the streets lies where it always has, on the shoulders of the brave men and women of the GCPD.”

“But, Commissioner, there have been no arrests. How can you explain—?”

“I’ve already answered that question, Miss Vale.”

“Ms. And, with all due respect, no you haven’t, Commissioner.”

“It seems you’ve been quite busy, Mr Wayne.”

Bruce frowned.

Alfred was beside him. He’d never called him Mr Wayne in private before. He set a breakfast tray down on the table in front of Bruce. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, bacon, grilled tomatoes, spinach, and orange juice. There was a letter in a simple white envelope propped up against the glass.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing of importance, sir.”

He picked up his cutlery and began eating. “Then why are you giving it to me?”

“Well… you see… I have thought long and hard about this. I truly have, sir. And it pains me to say it but I can’t stay here and watch any longer while you…”

Bruce had already finished the egg. He got to work on the tomatoes.

“…eh… as I was saying. I’ve been with you for a long time. I’ve been with your family even longer. It hurts me to do this, it really does, but I love you Bruce and I can’t continue aiding and abetting when…”

The tomatoes were gone. He downed the orange juice in one swift movement and started ploughing through the spinach and toast. “When what, Alfred?”

“Um… Yes… You see… I feel as if I…”

“Do we have any sausages?”

The butler was staring at him as if he’d just grown antlers. His gaze flicked from the TV, to the plate, back to Bruce’s face. “Yes sir…”

Bruce reached for the letter.

Alfred picked it up before he could get it.

Bruce looked at him, a question in his eye.

“I’m sorry, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “This may have to wait for a while yet. Though I think you still owe me an apology or two for your behaviour these last few weeks. Destroying a perfectly good bottle of 1961 Cognac and then passing out on the floor. Honestly, it was a miracle I found you and got that blade out of you before you bled out.”

“Yes Alfred. Thank you.”

“And?”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

The butler was still staring at him, a strange light in his eye.

“Sausages?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll see what I can find.” He tucked the letter into his breast pocket and walked away slowly.

Bruce turned back to the news. Grainy footage of a dark shadowy figure leaping off a building was being discussed by a panel of experts. Most of them seemed to agree, it was all a hoax. It would blow over in a month. There was no such thing as a bat-man. If there was why would he hide? Why wouldn’t he be in the open, like Superman? No. This was just a shadow. A digital artefact. Nothing more.

Bruce munched on his toast, no longer listening. Instead he was thinking about something else Vicky Vale had said in her interview with Loeb. _The streets may be cleaner but the sewers aren't. All this crime hasn't gone away, it's just going underground._ He took another mouthful. He had work to do.


	9. Chapter 9

It was prom night at Smallville High School. Clark’s junior prom, but likely his only one because he’d been excelling enough at school that it looked like he may be able to skip the last six months and go straight into college. He’d smiled sheepishly when he’d told Bruce that.

“I don’t know what I want to study yet, but I want to make Ma and Pa proud, you know? Maybe medicine? Be a doctor? I think I could do that. I think I’d like helping people.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the homemade tea Martha Kent had made him. His father was a doctor. “You’d be a good doctor.”

Clark beamed. “Thanks Bruce. Do you know what you’re going to do? After high school?”

“The common consensus among my teachers is that I’m not going to finish high school.”

“Hey. No. Don’t say that. You can still finish. You just used a sentence with ‘common consensus’ in it, right? It’s not that hard. If you just put in the effort I know you’d pass. You’re so smart, Bruce.”

“What’s the point? I’m a billionaire, remember? I don’t need an education. I don’t need to work. I can spend my whole life getting drunk and buying fast cars if I want.”

“Is that what you want?”

Bruce hadn’t answered the question. He’d just sipped his tea. Now, here he was, weeks later, in an elegant tux Alfred had tailored for him standing beside Clark on the staircase in the Kent’s house, letting them take pictures before they went to prom. The camera they had was old and clunky, the flash bright and startling. Bruce could feel the muscles in his face and neck get stiffer and stiffer with every photo.

He didn’t want to be here. Not really. He knew he had to be. It was Clark’s prom. He was Clark’s soulmate. But he wished he was at home, alone. Alfred barely left him alone anymore after he caught Bruce raiding the wine cellar.

That had been the worst fight he and Alfred had ever had.

_“It’s my wine!”_

_“You’re seventeen Master Bruce! You shouldn’t be dri—”_

Without a word Bruce had taken the most expensive bottle off the shelf, one he knew his father had bought and was saving for Bruce’s wedding, smashed the top off it, and tipped it onto the floor, just because he’d known that was what would hurt Alfred the most. It was petty, vindictive, and cruel. He knew that. But then, maybe that was just who he was. A petty, vindictive, cruel person.

Alfred hadn’t risen to the bait though. He’d just taken him out of the cellar and tended to the cut on Bruce’s hand he hadn’t even recalled getting.

When Clark saw the scar Bruce had told him it was an accident. And, in a way, it was. He shouldn’t have done that. He should have been a better person. Someone like Clark. Or, at the very least, someone worthy of Clark.

“Smile Bruce!”

He did, the action stiff and forced. Another flash of the camera. Surely they had enough photos.

As if reading his mind Clark called out. “Pa! Enough photos! How much film are you using?”

“Oh. Don’t you worry about that, my boy. Alfred promised us an unlimited supply.”

Alfred. Of course. Bruce was the billionaire but it didn’t always feel like it. He couldn’t spend any of his useless money. Couldn’t drink his wine. Couldn’t even fire Alfred, not that he really wanted to. Still, that powerlessness sometimes itched, itched so much it hurt.

Another photo. “Smile Bruce!”

He did again. Yet more flashes.

And it wasn’t just Alfred either. The Kent also looked out for him. And Clark… Clark who was holding his hand, looking at him, reading his distress. He was about to save him, just like he always did.

“That’s enough photos, dad. We’re going to be late.”

“Nonsense, you don’t need to be there until—”

Clark squeezed Bruce’s hand and began towing him off the stairs.

“Oh… well… okay then. Have fun!”

“Clark!” Martha rushed forward to wrap her arms around Clark and push a kiss onto his forehead. “Have the best night. Okay?”

Clark beamed. “I will, mum.”

“You know I’m going to be waiting up until you get home tonight, right?”

“I know, mum. We won’t stay out too late. Promise.”

“Good boy.”

And then something happened that Bruce did not expect. Martha Kent turned to him and, just like she’d done to Clark, hugged him, tight and warm. She didn’t wear any perfume, her scent musky and human with a hint of corn starch. Her hair was soft in his face, her arms thin but strong.

“Look at you. You’ve grown up as tall as Clark! I swear, I’d put a brick on your heads if I thought it would slow you down. If you need anything tonight you won’t hesitate to call, will you?”

“No.”

“Good. You know our number?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Then have fun.”

“Thanks, mum.” The words were out of his mouth before he realised what they were, and once he heard them everything in him went ice cold. 

Martha straightened a little in surprise. “Bruce I…”

He turned towards the door and strode out before she could say anything. Clark was following close behind him, saying something, Bruce wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t concentrate on language just then. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other until he reached the truck. He yanked open the door and climbed into the passenger seat. Then, in the four point seven seconds it took for Clark to make his way around the vehicle, he focused on breathing. Slow and deep. In and out.

“Are you okay?” Clark said once he was inside the car with him.

“I’m fine.”

“If you want we can wait a bit. We’re not really running late, you know.”

“I know. I’m not an idiot, Clark.”

“Do you want—”

“Just go.”

Clark obeyed.

*

Most kids had fancy rides to prom. Limos, Bentleys. Some of the boys from the football team had even ordered an old fire truck. Clark didn’t do anything like that. The way he figured, Bruce had spent his whole life riding in the backseat of fancy cars. It would be more fun, maybe more intimate, if they just went together in Clark’s truck. And, if he was being honest with himself, that ‘more intimate’ was a big factor in the final decision. If he was driving that meant, after all the partying was done, he and Bruce could take the truck somewhere nice – the old lookout point near Farmer Rod’s place, perhaps? – and… well… Clark wasn’t sure what came after that ‘and’. He’d filled the glove compartment with five different types of condoms, seven types of lube, a couple of small towels, an Oliva Newton-John CD, and some snacks, just in case.

Now, looking at Bruce, pale and clearly angry, he wondered if he shouldn’t have also packed some soothing whale noises.

“Hey. My mum won’t be mad that you—”

“Don’t talk.”

Okay. He had to admit, it wasn’t a great start to his prom night. But, at least Bruce was there, perfectly tailored suit, flower pinned to his breast that matched the one on Clark’s. Beautiful, as always. Heart wrenchingly so, in fact.

He felt guilty for thinking this when Bruce was still upset, but he really hoped they were going to have sex after prom. And not just blow jobs – they’d managed to sneak in a few more of those around the watchful eyes of Alfred and Clark’s parents over the last year – but penetrate sex.

Fucking.

He’d been fantasising about what it would be like to fuck Bruce, and be fucked by him, since… well… since he knew people could fuck each other.

Bruce was his soulmate. That meant it _had_ to be good with him. Otherwise, how would they ever get their happily ever after? Fate had paired them together and so far fate hadn’t let them down. Bruce was beautiful, clever, interesting… and pretty damn good at sucking Clark’s dick. Clark knew fucking would be even better.

But, on the other hand, he didn’t want to do anything if Bruce was upset, which he clearly was. Bruce’s moods had always been unpredictable and strange. Clark never knew what was going to set him off. Sometimes things he thought would be upsetting weren’t and things he never assumed would be bad were.

Sometimes he never even knew what made Bruce unhappy. In fact, that was often the case. He’d learnt it was best just to weather the storm without comment. Let Bruce work through what he had to work through so they could return to normality.

And so, when they arrived at Smallville Public Hall, surrounded by his classmates in bright dresses and stiff suits, he smiled and pretended nothing was wrong.

As they stood under a tinsel covered archway for their couple’s photo, he smiled and pretended nothing was wrong.

And as he danced with Lana and Pete, Bruce standing unmoving at his side, he smiled and pretended nothing was wrong.

It was okay. Really. He had fun. Loads of fun. He just wished Bruce was having fun too.

Then, all of a sudden, he was. Clark wasn’t sure what happened but sometime between ten PM and eleven Bruce’s mood did a one eighty. He didn’t dance but he started moving a little bit to the beat, shoulders relaxed, and the lines in his face easing out. When the slow dances started he let Clark pull him close and even turned his head to mouth Clark’s ear.

Clark was just starting to think maybe that glovebox full of condoms and lube wasn’t a bad idea when Bruce tried to kiss him and Clark’s smelt it.

Vodka. The cheap kind that Old Farmer Rod always reeked of.

“Bruce?” He hissed. “Are you drunk? Where did you get alcohol?”

“Boys in the bathroom were selling it.”

“What boys? You can’t just buy—”

“I can, actually. I can do things. I can make decisions about myself and my useless fucking powerless body.”

Clark stared at him, aghast. “Bruce!”

Bruce tried to kiss him. Hungry and sloppy.

Clark shied away. “We should go home.”

“Why? It’s prom. We’re having fun.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m having fun.”

“You don’t need drink to have fun.”

“ _You_ don’t need drink to have fun,” Bruce said pointedly. “Me? I’m not so sure.”

Clark took his hand. “It’s okay. Come on. Let’s go home.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “I don’t need protecting, Clark.”

“ _Please_ , Bruce. Come on. I don’t like this. My parents wouldn’t like it.”

“I didn’t know you cared what your parents thought, what with all those condoms in your truck. Or is breaking the rules okay when you get your dick wet but not if it’s something I do without you?”

Clark stared at him. Hurt, confused. “Bruce… I… I’m just not comfortable. Please. It’s late. I… I want to go home.”

Bruce held his ground for a second longer than normal, a small muscle working in his jaw. Then, all at once, his shoulders sagged and he allowed himself to be towed off the dancefloor. Clark said his goodbyes to Lana and Pete at the door and then took Bruce to the truck.

They drove home in silence.

When they walked in the front door Clark’s parents were still up, watching TV.

“You’re back early.”

“Yeah,” was all he had time to say. Bruce was already up the stairs and in his room. He didn’t slam his door but somehow the smooth sound of the lock sliding into place was even worse.


	10. Chapter 10

The year that passed after Lois left was strange in its familiarity. Nothing changed. Not really. He still saved people, he still smiled for cameras, and he still worked at the Daily Planet. But he didn’t wear the bandage on his arm, he didn’t smile or flirt with Lois across the news room floor, and he didn’t lie awake at night wondering what happened to his soulmate.

He refused to take any assignments in Gotham and didn’t watch the news coming out of that city. He still heard things though. Cat couldn’t keep her voice down at the best of times, and while he loved that about her, he loved that she wasn’t ashamed to be heard, the amount of time she spent detailing Bruce Wayne’s scandalous exploits was an acute kind of torture.

“…seen consorting with the star of new Broadway play.”

“Did you hear?! Bruce Wayne bought a hotel just so some models he was with could take off their dresses in the pool!”

“…claims to have spent the night with Bruce Wayne! He hasn’t denied it!”

“Drunk. As normal. Honestly, that man is too much sometimes!”

“…seen on a lunch date with that famous ballerina. Look at these photos! Bruce Wayne is so…”

“…won most eligible bachelor if, and I quote, ‘you don’t mind sharing him’.”

“…hurt himself in a skiing accident or something. Can’t have been that bad! He went to a fundraiser two days later with an heiress.”

It was almost a relief when, a few months after his reappearance, people got bored of Bruce Wayne and started focusing on something called a Bat-Man. Apparently, Gotham had its very own cryptid. Lois laughed when she found out.

“They’re just jealous we have an alien and they don’t.”

But, as the months went by, more and more evidence for the Bat-Man started to emerge. It seemed like there was something there. A vampire? A demon? A weirdo in a costume? People couldn’t seem to agree.

Batman wasn’t the only one either.

Shortly after Batman starting making headlines footage of a woman beating up would be terrorists in mech suits with a glowing lasso emerged. Unlike Batman she didn’t hide from the cameras. She faced them and declared herself Princess Diana of Themyscira, a paradise island of immortal warrior women from Ancient Greece, here to save the world of man.

Well. Okay then.

She wasn’t alone. There was a man in gold scale armour who had developed the interesting habit of throwing nuclear submarines out of the ocean, a kid in Central City who could move faster than light and blushed as red as his costume when asked if he was single by a news reporter, and a glowing green guy who claimed he wasn’t an alien even though he most certainly came from space, as captured on the International Space Station live feed.

In a weird way it was nice knowing he wasn’t the only one out there that was different… even if he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable being grouped into the same category as all of them. ‘Super Humans’ the Daily Planet called them. It had a better ring to it than ‘Unidentified Hyper Powered Par-Human Entities’ which was the term the Luthor controlled press kept trying to make stick. The one that seemed to be rising to the top though was, distressingly, ‘Super Heroes’.

Clark didn’t like it. He didn’t feel like a hero. He didn’t want to be treated like one. He was just a guy, a guy who could do things. That made him different, but it didn’t make him special. Most people, he believed, would do the same in his position. His powers didn't make him a hero.

He’d argued that point in a largely ignored news article and tried to say it again as Superman. It didn’t seem to matter. He was a superhero. The first superhero. Superman. The most powerful… maybe. The jury was still out on Reddit.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter, so he let the name thing slide. In a month or two the interest in them would die down anyway, he thought. After all, a few grainy photos of a dark figure gliding between sky scrapers, or some shaky footage of a woman in a star spangled skirt bouncing bullets off her bracers, couldn’t keep the public’s attention forever.

Something pretty big would have to happen in the world of ‘superheroes’ for them to head front page ahead of the coming election news.

But then, to Clark’s horror, something big did happen.

Something horrible.

“...can’t pronounce it. It’s literally impossible to speak that language if you don’t have that weird bug mouth. But, roughly translated, what they’re saying is… um… ‘something something protect the motherbox… something… Dark side? Wait. No. _Darkseid_.’

The Flash was fidgeting so much his hands were a blur. “Dude. You just said ‘dark side’ twice.”

“No. It’s different. It’s like a name or something.”

“Don’t you know?” Clark asked, his patience running thin.

“Okay. Do you want to try translating, big blue? Because I’m doing the best I can here. They’ve got tech that messes with my ring so, really, you should be thanking me for any scrap of information that—”

“Darkseid is their leader.”

They all looked up. A new figure was striding towards them. His body was a patchwork of metal and flesh, one eye dark, the other glowing red. “They came from a planet called Apokolips. They’re here for bodies, living ones. They use them to create more soldiers, called parademons.”

“Those are those things flying around out there?” Flash asked.

“Yes.”

“ _Shit_. Those things are _people_?”

“Not anymore.”

“What’s a motherbox?” Clark asked at the same time the Green Lantern spoke.

“How the hell do you know all this? You’re just a kid.”

The kid – because Green Lantern was right, he was young, very young, seventeen, _maybe_ eighteen – straightened and for the first time Clark realised he was afraid. He didn’t want to approach them. He didn’t want to be there. But he was. As far as Clark was concerned, that made him a real hero.

“My father he… um... he pulled apart a motherbox to… to _save_ me, I guess. He didn’t know what it was.”

“What is it?” Clark asked again.

“A piece of Apoklips. Far more advanced than anything here on Earth. They’re what opened the portals. They’re what’s keeping them open. They’re what’s giving the orders to the parademons. I can hear them. I can understand what they’re saying.”

“Can you locate them?” Green Lantern asked. “If we can find them we can destroy them. Stop this.”

“What about the people?” Flash was still buzzing, eyes wide. “There are people they took into the portals.”

“Darkseid is coming,” the half metal kid said. “He wants to watch, I think. They haven’t had a harvest like this in centuries. Humans are at a very useful time in their evolution. Good material. Jesus I hate this but... I can hear them. They’re very happy.”

“Then let’s kill him,” Green Lantern snarled. “I’ll do it. I have the ring. I’m the most powerful. Flash. You’re fast. You run into those portals. Save whoever you can. Superman. You take the kid and find the motherboxes. On my signal, rip them apart.”

“But—” Clark began.

“It won’t work.” A new voice. A deep voice. Strange, but also eerily familiar.

There more people were walking into the rubble filled ruin where they were huddling. And, honestly, Clark had assumed it was a good hiding spot but they’d been discovered by four people in just about as many minutes. Maybe he wasn’t the best at picking this sort of thing.

These three weren’t like the kid though. He knew them. Or, at least, he knew _of_ them.

Leading the group was Princess Diana of Themyscira. The woman Lois had dubbed ‘Wonder Woman’ in her latest article after she’d broken a man’s arm for touching her. To her left was the man in orange scales, wielding an actual trident, surf bleached hair knotted back, the tail end of a traditional Māori tattoo visible on his neck. To her right was Batman.

Clark’s eyes fixed on him.

He looked like a man, not a vampire or a demon, but his suit wasn’t a silly costume either. It was high tech, covered in gadgets, and made up of a metal blend Clark had never seen before, but must have included lead because when he tried to take a peek at his face (something he’d silently done when he first met Flash and Green Lantern) he couldn’t see anything.

Batman's lips were the only thing that was showing and, just like this voice, they were familiar but also… not. He knew he didn’t know anyone with stubble like that. He didn’t know anyone who stood as tall as him who was so heavily muscled. He didn’t know anyone who _moved_ like Batman, smooth, elegant, precise, _trained_.

But… even so… there was something…

“What the fuck do you mean ‘it won’t work’?” Green Lantern snapped. “Have you got a better idea?”

Batman responded without hesitation. “Yes.”

“You motherfucker. You come in here like—”

“Hey, man. Chill,” the man in orange scales held up his hand.

“Oh good. The guy with a pitchfork is telling me to chill. Well I suppose I’ll just—”

Batman pulled an item out from under his cape. A box. Small, but glowing.

“That’s it,” the half metal kid said. “That’s a motherbox.”

“Which he didn’t know I was holding until I showed him,” Batman rumbled. “He can’t track down the motherboxes, which you would have known if you let him answer your question.”

Green Lantern was dumbfounded. “You… you’ve been listening? Okay, that’s some next level creepy bullshit.”

Diana spoke. “Batman was able to find this motherbox by triangulating the portals. I fought off the flying creatures. King Arthur of Atlantis showed his worth by retrieving the box itself.”

The man in orange scales – King Arthur of Atlantis which… okay… right… fine… this was an existential crisis he could have later when the alien invaders were destroyed – smiled and winked at Clark. “I won’t tell you where it was but I _will_ say it was wedged in there _pretty_ tight.”

“We need to find the other two and destroy them, together, quickly, before Darkseid can discover our sabotage,” Diana continued.

Flash. “But… the people!”

Batman. “I will go into the portals. Save who I can. Those who have the tools or the abilities to fight Darkseid should stay here in the event he comes through. When you have the motherboxes give me sixty seconds to get clear, then destroy them. Superman is the only one strong enough to do it.”

Clark. “Wait. How are we meant to contact you?”

“I assume your cyborg here has already hacked into my audio transmitter.”

The boy jumped and looked down at his feet sheepishly. “Yeah… Sorry Batman. I couldn’t help it. It just sort of… happens when I’m around technology.”

Without another word Batman was gone. Diana started relaying the locations of the other two motherboxes, both heavily guarded, as well as the whereabouts of the biggest portal, the one which Darkseid and his ‘royal guard’ would likely enter through.

Then all the talking stopped and the horror began.

Clark didn’t do much fighting. Not compared to Diana, Arthur, and the Green Lantern. He focused instead on saving as many people as he could from the mayhem and destruction. Flash was there alongside him. The kid – Victor he’d learn a little later – did what he could but was still very new to his mechanical body.

When Darkseid came through they all pulled together to fight him. Clark had never met anyone stronger than him. It was frightening… but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t. Not when people were still dying.

They’d barely got him back in the portal when Flash came running with all three motherboxes.

“Tell Batman!” Clark called and grabbed the boxes. “Sixty seconds. Then I rip them apart.”

Victor sent the message, and Clark began counting, his eyes fixed on Darkseid still trying to come back through the portal. Arthur, Diana, and Green Lantern were barely holding him back. As Clark watched Green Lantern was knocked flying into a wall and swarmed by parademons. Darkseid began to advance.

“How much time have we got?” He asked Victor.

“Forty one seconds still on the clock, Superman.”

_Shit._

Darkseid began stepping back through the portal. Diana swung at him. He knocked her back to the ground.

“Where is Batman?! Do we have eyes?”

Flash disappeared for a second. Reappeared. “I don’t know. I can’t see him. I think he’s still in the portal.”

“Thirty six seconds,” Victor called.

Darkseid was fighting with Arthur now. Arthur was struggling. Clark blasted the alien monster with heat vision. It didn’t seem to do anything but draw the warlord’s attention. Clark saw the moment Darkseid saw him, a curious if not still slightly bored look… until he noticed the motherboxes in Clark’s arm.

Darkseid was still half in the portal.

“Victor?! Time?!”

“Thirty one seconds.”

Arthur. “Now Superman! You have to do it now!”

“Twenty nine seconds.”

Beams of light shot out of Darkseid’s eyes. Clark flew up to avoid them, only to see them zigzag through the air to follow.

Clark cursed and flew, ducking, weaving, flying. People were screaming. Dying. Darkseid was almost out of the portal. Another few steps and it wouldn’t matter if they closed the portals or not.

“Twenty six seconds!” He heard Victor call.

Clark closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer for a man he’d never known and ripped the boxes in his hands apart. They screamed an eerily human scream, sparks flying, before dying. Around him Parademons dropped to the ground, as stiff and lifeless as robots with their batteries removed. The portals began to wink out one by one with strange fizzling sounds. Darkseid roared in anger, moved as if to step forward… but it was too late. The portal began to close and, realising he was about to be cut in half, Darkseid retreated.

And then, it was over.

Clark collapsed to the ground, ruined motherboxes in his hands.

He’d just killed a man.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the S off his chest and never—

“ _Sixty_ seconds,” he heard a low angry voice rumble.

“B-Batman,” he spun around, and there, among the rubble, a child in his arms, was Batman. He was covered in ash, had a few wounds, and his cape was considerably shorter than it was before, but he was alive.

“Didn’t you hear me or can’t you count that high?”

“You made it,” he rasped. “You’re alive.” He smiled. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Something in Batman’s demeanour changed. Clark wasn’t sure what it was or how he could tell. Batman’s posture didn’t change, and the little bit of face he could see remained stiff and still. But Clark was sure, something he’d said had caught Batman off guard.

He handed the terrified child to Clark and, without a word, turned and left.

“Bit of an arsehole isn’t he?” Green Lantern said, floating down to land beside Clark in among the debris.

“Yeah,” Clark admitted, watching the black cape grow steadily further away. “Yeah he is.”

_There was something…_


	11. Chapter 11

Clark was visiting Wayne Manor. Bruce wasn’t sure he liked Clark visiting Wayne Manor. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because Clark was always so impressed when he came. It had been years and he still gaped at the ballroom as if it was something other than a useless dust filled cavern. He still paused by the portraits of Bruce’s ancestors and pointed out unimportant details, like that his great great grandfather had Bruce’s eyes, or that his great aunt had his chin. He still, on clear days, ran to the top floor, peered out the window, and said he could see Gotham Tower.

Or perhaps the reason why Bruce didn’t like Clark visiting Wayne Manor was it meant Bruce was missing an opportunity to visit the Kent Farm. He liked the Kent Farm. He liked that it was nothing like Wayne Manor. The land was used, the skies were blue, the home was close and crowded.

It didn’t matter. Clark was visiting and Alfred at least seemed to enjoy the opportunity to cook a larger meal. Bruce hated eating, but Clark more than made up for it. There was nothing he wouldn’t try and everything he tried he loved.

On the first night, despite eating the roast duck practically by himself, he still managed to polish off two servings of tiramisu and even munched through a couple of apples as a snack before bed.

Maybe that was why they were soulmates. Bruce was one of the few people on the planet who could afford keep Clark well fed.

Bruce didn’t mind. He was used to it. Still, he could tell Alfred was watching him closer than usual, making sure Bruce didn’t slip food off his plate and onto Clark’s. Of course Alfred would do that. Because Bruce was the broken fuck up that couldn’t even be trusted to eat a meal. It didn’t matter that he was almost eighteen, almost a man. He was still just a self-destructive child. They all thought so.

He swallowed some duck and almost choked.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Clark smiled at him. His eyes were bright blue, teeth perfectly white, laugh lines already firmly in place.

Huh. Maybe one thing mattered.

Bruce thought about that smile in the shower that night as he scrubbed his skin pink. He thought about it as he towelled himself off and decided not to get a dressing gown on. He thought about it as he lay in the silk sheets of his bed.

But that wasn’t all he thought about. Clark was the same height as him but over the last few months his shape had changed. He wasn’t gangly anymore. He was developing a heavy more muscular build which was… not unwelcome. He also had more body hair. That too was not unwelcome.

Bruce rolled over in bed and looked at the door. When they were children Clark used to sneak into his bed.

He glanced at the clock. It was late. Very late. Clark was probably asleep.

“Clark,” Bruce said softly, so softly he could barely hear himself. “I’m waiting.”

A second later the door opened.

Even in the darkness Bruce could see Clark’s blush. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bruce echoed.

“You’re… eh… naked.”

“Very observant.”

“Can I?”

“Please do.”

Clark began approaching the bed, stripping out of his ridiculous pyjamas as he did so. “Alfred won’t be mad?”

“He’s my employee.”

“Still…”

“Clark. I’m seventeen. You’re barely eighteen. We’re soulmates. He doesn’t care.”

“Still…” Clark said one more time but allowed Bruce to pull him into the bed with him. After that there were no more protests. In fact, the only thing he heard out of Clark’s mouth for a while was ‘yes’, ‘please yes’ and ‘please god yes’. Bruce took that as affirmation and kissed, sucked, and grinded until they were both rock hard and covered in sweat.

Then…

“I want to fuck you, Clark.”

Clark sucked in a small breath.

“Can I?”

Clark nodded. “Yes. Yes, I want it. Just tell me what to do. Yes.”

“One ‘yes’ is enough. Roll over.”

Clark obeyed. Bruce pulled the lube out of his bedside draw and got to work. They’d never done this before but that was okay. The process wasn’t challenging and Clark was easy to read. He arched, panted, groaned, and explained in explicit detail what it felt like to have Bruce’s slicked up fingers in him.

“You have a gift for words.”

Clark grinned at him over his shoulder. “You have… ah… a more useful gift… in my opinion…”

That was a fucking beautiful grin.

“You don’t have to… mmm… though… when I do this alone I don’t… ah… wait so long… you can fuck me now.”

“You do this alone?”

Another blush. “S-sometimes.”

Bruce allowed himself to envision that for a moment before removing his fingers and shoving Clark roughly down into the mattress.

He gasped. “Bruce?”

Bruce climbed on top of him, mouthed at his neck, and, using one hand to guide himself, entered him. The sound Clark made was somehow even better than the sensation of his body – tight and hot – clenched around his cock.

_Fuck._

He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to hitch his hips up and just slam into him. But he couldn’t because if he did that he would come too fast and he needed… he needed this to last… this was their first time fucking and…

“You okay?” Clark asked.

Bruce choked out a laugh. “ _I’m_ fucking _you_.”

“Yeah but… I got powers and… hm… _God you feel good.”_ Clark reached under himself and began touching himself.

Bruce wanted to see that. He pulled Clark back onto his knees and angled their bodies towards the mirror on the other side of the room. It was dark, the only light coming from the moon, shining in the window, but Bruce could still see Clark’s hand moving rough and hard up and down his cock. It was hypnotic, and gave him the beat with which to move to.

_“Ah,”_ Clark said.

_“Hm,”_ Bruce answered.

After that any semblance of conversation ceased. Bruce gripped Clark, soft skin, impossibly hard muscle – perfect. He was fucking perfect – and fucked him as hard as he could because he knew he couldn’t hurt him. He knew Clark was enjoying it. He knew he was a shit soulmate but this… this he could do…

He didn’t last long. That didn’t matter. He heard – and _felt_ – Clark’s orgasm alongside his.

They collapsed onto the bed, still tangled, breathing hard.

“Did you use a condom?”

That question hit him like a punch to the gut. “No,” Bruce confessed. “I didn’t think you’d…”

“It’s okay,” Clark whispered. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Bruce slowly eased out of him and rolled so they were side by side. Clark reached forward and put a hand on Bruce, keeping him close.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Bruce felt some of the warmth ebb out of him. He wished Clark wouldn’t say things like that. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.” Softer. “I love you too.” The truth. Hard, and painful.

Clark’s smile grew.

*

The next morning Clark woke on Bruce’s bed. He felt warm inside and out. He felt better than he did after sleeping in the sun. He felt stronger than when he lifted a tractor above his head. Because last night Bruce fucked him and it was everything it was supposed to be. Messy, strange, but also so fucking good.

Clark had held himself open, painfully aware of what he could do to Bruce if he clenched. But that, as it turned out, was easy. Not just easy, natural. Being fucked by Bruce felt like the most natural thing in the whole world.

“Clark,” Bruce said.

Clark sat up. Bruce wasn’t in bed with him. He’d assumed he was in the bathroom or something, but that voice hadn’t come from the bathroom. It’s come from… Clark saw the open window and with a shocked gasp leapt off the bed and began pulling on his clothes.

A minute later he’d floated up to the roof where Bruce was sitting in a shirt and slacks, feet bare and hair still messy from sleep. It had rained the night before and the rooftop around him gleamed.

“Bruce? What are you doing up here? Did you climb up here?”

“I come up here all the time.”

“Is it safe?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Clark carefully settled down beside his soulmate. “I guess its kind nice… I mean… if it was a sunny day we’d be able to see Gotham Tow—”

“Clark. I’m sorry.”

He looked at Bruce, stunned. “What for?”

“For… everything.” Bruce said, voice tight, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I… I try… I try to be what you need me to be. But I’m not, I can’t. I’m not perfect, like you. I’m not strong, like you. I’m not a good soulmate.”

“Hey! Bruce! That’s not true.”

“It is, Clark. It is.”

“No, it’s not. You are perfect.”

Bruce’s face was strained, his lips thin. “No. Clark.” His eyes flashed to Clark’s. “Please listen to me.”

“I’m listening, Bruce. But you’re being too hard on yourself. You’re an amazing soulmate and I think—”

“Clark. Please. I’m begging you.”

“I’m listening,” he promised. “I am. I love you, Bruce. I love you more than anything. And I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always protect you.”

Bruce shifted away from him. “I don’t need your protection, Clark.”

“I know that. I do. But you have it anyway. Because I love you.”

“No, Clark. I don’t need that. I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Bruce.”

“You can’t protect me and trust me.”

Clark sat up straighter. “Huh? No. I can. Of course I can. I will. I have powers, Bruce. I can do it.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I am, Bruce. I hear you.”

Bruce stood and walked across the rooftop. Clark’s heart started beating faster as he watched his soulmate’s bare feet on those rain drenched tiles.

“Bruce! Be careful.”

Bruce turned around to watch him, still moving, only backwards this time. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to fall.”

“What if I want to fall?”

“Bruce,” Clark lurched to his feet and, not wanting to trust his own sense of balance on those tiles, began to hover. “Bruce, come on. That’s not funny. Let’s go inside.”

Bruce walked up to a ledge and, without even holding on to the nearby spire, leant forward to look over the edge.

“Bruce. Stop. You’re scaring me.”

Bruce turned to him, eyes silver in the pale cloud-filtered sunlight. “Trust me,” he said, and without another word, stepped back over the edge. He dropped out of view like a stone. Clark’s heart plummeted in unison.

“Bruce!”

Clark swooped down after him and seized Bruce under the arms.

“What the hell?!”

Bruce’s gaze hadn’t changed. Cold, curious almost, but not scared or surprised. “I told you to trust me.”

“I’m not going to let you break every bone in your body!”

“I was going to catch myself, on that,” he nodded at a thin windowsill, also wet.

“And if you missed?”

Bruce’s gaze was steady. “Then I die.”

“Bruce! Don’t say that!”

“Would it be such a bad thing?”

“Yes! You’re my soulmate! I don’t want to lose you!”

“I know,” Bruce said softly. “I know.” A new expression filtered across his face. “I’m sorry.”

Clark was taken off guard by the change in tone, but he welcomed it. “That’s okay. It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” He pulled Bruce into a tight hug, still hovering in the air. “I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to prove a point.”

“Don’t apologise to me, Clark.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve it.”

“Bruce—”

“I’m going to hurt you,” Bruce whispered. “It doesn’t matter what I do. I know, I’m going to hurt you. I’m not a good soulmate. And I can’t keep pretending. I can’t—”

“Bruce,” Clark said softly. “You don’t need to pretend with me. And you can’t… you can’t hurt me. Not by being yourself. I know you don’t think you’re perfect, but you are. Really. To me.”

A drop of rain landed on his face, followed by a second. Bruce shivered as the ice cold droplets began to land on him too, splattering in his hair and running down the gaunt shape of his cheeks.

“Take me inside, Clark.”

He was only too happy to obey.

He flew back down to the bedroom window and eased Bruce onto the plush carpet.

The bed was still a mess from the morning, the sheets tangled, the smell of sex lingering in the air. It made Clark a little embarrassed. Evidently Bruce didn’t feel the same way. He walked straight towards the bed, flopped down in it, and began pulling off his shirt.

“Bruce?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Clark stared. “Now?” He’s just caught Bruce falling off the roof. His heart was still pounding, his hands buzzing with a mix of fear and adrenaline.

“Now,” Bruce said and threw his shirt to the floor. Began working on his pants.

“Bruce I don’t know…”

“If you don’t want to then leave.”

“Bruce. Shouldn’t we talk about—?”

“I tried to talk. It didn’t work. We’re done talking.”

“But—”

Bruce kicked off his pants and, just like that, he was naked. To Clark’s shame, despite everything that had just happened, his dick started paying attention. This was the first time he’d seen Bruce one hundred percent naked in the daylight and the sight was… well… it was worth the wait. He was pale and skinny with long limbs and a smattering of dark body hair. The only mark on his body was his soulmark, a large loopy signature imprinted on his side.

“You’re beautiful,” Clark whispered.

“Are you going to fuck me?”

Clark considered it for a long time. The longer he considered the further away the rooftop felt and the more beautiful Bruce became.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted when the truth became undeniable. “Yeah I think I’m gonna.”

Bruce spread his legs. “Come on, Kansas.”


	12. Chapter 12

Diana’s soulmark was on her shoulder, proud and clear, out there for the world to see.

“Have you met Steve Trevor?” The Green Lantern asked one day.

“Yes,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

“Aw. That’s a shame. Not for you, obviously, but for the rest of us. I bet there are a thousand and one guys and girls lined up at your door hoping for some pre-soulmate fun. Oh well. What’s he like? Steve Trevor?”

“He’s dead.”

That shut the Green Lantern up for a full thirty seconds, a feat in of itself, in Bruce’s humble opinion.

“Ah. Shit. Sorry to hear that.”

“Your condolences are unnecessary, Lantern. He died a hero, a long time ago.”

The room lapsed back into merciful silence.

They were gathered in ‘The Hall of Justice’, which was little more than a couple of shipping containers piled together on the outskirts of Washington D.C. A far cry from the white marble temple the Green Lantern – Hal Jordan was his real name, Bruce had eventually discovered, though it took a frustratingly long time, the man was smarter that he let on and good at covering his tracks – had insisted on describing to the press. When asked about the location he’d cheerily informed them it was in D.C but was hidden from view by the power of his ring.

This outlandish story was both absurdly stupid and infuriatingly clever. Some people believed him. Most didn’t. Of those that didn’t many began looking for the Justice League HQ… everywhere except for Washington D.C.

Which meant they were safe to meet here. For now.

Eventually they would need somewhere better. Bruce had a few ideas about that. But that wasn’t what they were here today to discuss.

“I still haven’t found my soulmate,” Hal went on, talking loudly. “The mark is on my back. I know, _worst_ fucking place. I can only see it in the mirror. Plus it’s in some weird language. I don’t even know how to pronounce it.”

Clark. “But… it’s your _soulmate_. Surely you’d have found out the language?”

“Yeah. You’d think, right?” Hal said with a laugh. “I’m so lazy. I figure they’re going to have to do the hard work and find me.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, but he heard the carefully constructed lie for what it was. He’d seen pictures of Hal Jordan unmasked when he hacked into the air force personal database, including those taken at medical. In one picture Hal’s soulmark was visible. Bruce didn’t need to be an expert in linguistics to know that language was unlike any found on Earth.

“Where is he?” Arthur moaned. “He’s fifteen minutes late. You’d think the fastest—”

A blur of red. A flash of lightening.

“Sorry guys,” The Flash – Barry Allen – said and dumped a few shopping bags on the middle of the table. “I brought snacks.”

Bruce’s hand clenched into a fist under the table. This group would be the death of him.

After the invasion he hadn’t planned on ever seeing them again. Least of all…

Clark stepped forward, painfully close, to look at what Barry had brought. “Oh! I love these! Good haul.”

…but it couldn’t be helped. They were too powerful, and the threats Earth now faced having made its debut on the intergalactic stage by repelling Darkseid too great, not to be utilised.

“So what’s up?” Barry turned to face him, munching on a store bought cookie. “Who called this meeting?”

“Spooky,” Hal said. “Who else?”

All eyes turned to him.

“Cyborg accidentally hacked into a top secret U.S government lab on Sunday,” he told them.

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Right on. I knew that kid was cool.”

“Wait. _Accidentally_?” Hal laughed. “You can’t be serious. Where is he?”

“School,” Bruce told him. “He wanted to be here but I insisted. He can become a full time member of the League in a couple of years once he’d older and once he’s got more control over his powers.”

“Oh, and this is something you decide now, is it? Remember how last month he was saying ‘there is no such thing as the Justice League’? Because I sure do.”

Clark. “Easy, Lantern. Batman’s right. Cyborg is still very young. It’ll do him good to wait a bit.”

“Oh sure. Of course _you’d_ back _him_ up. If you two aren’t sucking each other’s cocks yet I’ll—”

“Lantern,” Diana stopped him. “Peace.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry, Princess. I’m just mad that he’s making decisions like that without talking to anyone. As if he’s the one that set this whole thing up and not me and Flash. We built this base! Superman is the one that called us all back together. Why does Batman get to decide who’s a ‘member’ and who’s not? Also, I hate to bring up the giant purple double headed elephant in the room, but Cyborg was our only non-white. How’s that going to look to the press?”

“Hey,” Arthur frowned. “I’m not white.”

“Dude. You’re _blonde_.”

“Bro. I got to tell ya. You saying shit like that _really_ makes me want to shish kebab you with this trident.”

While Bruce was sympathetic to the feeling he couldn’t let this go on. He stood and slapped the folder he’d been carrying down onto the table, right beside Flash’s snacks.

The room fell into silence as they all turned to look.

Hal, as always, was the first to speak. “Paper, Spooky? I’d figure you’d be into this new technology age faster than anyone.”

“Paper can’t be traced,” Bruce told him and flipped open the folder. “There two things which may be of interest to us in the facility itself.” Three, but he wasn’t going to tell them that. “The first is information. During the invasion they collected data which I believe strongly indicates that there is another fully functioning motherbox in this solar system.”

“You think there’s another motherbox here?” Barry asked. “Are you sure? What are the odds?”

“Given this data? I’d estimate the likelihood of its existence to be roughly ninety seven percent.”

“If there was another motherbox why aren’t we still being swarmed with parademons?” Hal asked.

“Because this motherbox, while functioning, has not been activated. Darkseid may not even know of its existence… or maybe he does know. Maybe he’s hoping it escapes our notice so, if he ever plans on invading again, there will be a pre-established spawn point, somewhere we may not expect.”

“Okay,” Diana straightened. “Let’s destroy it.”

“We have to find it first.”

“Is it on Earth?” Clark asked.

He didn’t look at him. “I don’t know its location.”

“How do we find it then?”

“I will have to break into this facility and access more of their data in order to locate where the signal came from.”

Hal. “Don’t you think Cyborg would be better at that? You know, because he already ‘accidentally’ hacked into their computers once?”

“He would be. Except, I suspect, the majority of the data we need is being stored on paper.” He sent the Lantern a sharp look. “Do you remember what we just learnt about paper, Lantern?”

“Holy shit. Was that sass? Did you just sass me? I didn’t think that fit with the whole broody aesthetic you had going on.”

“Paper is untraceable,” Diana filled in.

Bruce nodded.

“So?” Barry shifted from foot to foot. Fidgeting, as always, full of pent up energy. “Is this whole meeting just you asking permission to break into a government facility?”

“No.”

“There was a second thing,” Diana said. “That would be of interest to us.”

“Yes. I believe they are holding someone captive there.”

A pause as everyone took in that information.

Hal, suspicious as ever. “What sort of someone? Like… a convict? A POW?”

“An extra-terrestrial.”

“An _alien_? Seriously?”

Clark had straightened, paying more attention. “Do we know what kind?”

“Is it from Apokolis?” Arthur asked.

“No and no. The alien in question is unlike anything we’ve seen before.” Bruce noticed Clark’s shoulders sag, just a little. “What Cyborg was able to discover is this: firstly, it is intelligent, and a male, so ‘it’ is in fact a ‘he’. Secondly, he crash landed onto Earth seventy years ago, by all accounts a refugee from the destruction of his home world.”

Clark has straightened up again.

Bruce knew he was manipulating him. He knew that was probably unfair. But the methods didn’t matter as much as the final result.

“So… what?” Barry pushed. “Are you suggesting we break into this government lab, free a U.S prisoner, and steal top secret information? Just because we can? Because we got powers? I got to tell you, that’s not going to work with me. I’m the guy that stops people from slipping on the sidewalk and maybe catches a mugger or two. I’m not a criminal.”

“Then why do you wear a mask?”

Barry’s jaw set. “I’m not doing this, Batman.”

Hal, predictable as ever, straightened up. “Yeah. He’s right. We don’t know who or what this alien is. It could be a monster, worse than Darkseid. As for the info? Honestly, Spooky, I know that you’re afraid of Darkseid coming back. We all are. But we don’t even know if this thing exists.”

“I can’t help you either, Batman,” Diana said, apologetically. “I am giving a speech to the UN on world peace. I cannot be seen to commit crimes of this nature in my host country.”

“The government won’t report our break in. They can’t without also revealing the existence of the lab.”

“Even so, this is not something I am comfortable doing.”

He nodded. The answers he’d expected. The answers he needed.

Arthur shrugged. “Where’s the lab?”

“New Mexico.”

“A landlocked desert state,” the man noted. “I could come along for extra punching power if you like but I won’t be able to do anything really cool that far from the sea.”

Bruce nodded. “Understood.” He closed the folder. “I was wrong to present this to you. I’m sorry. Meeting adjourned.” He turned and walked out of the room before any of them could protest.

“Well…” He heard Hal as he walked down the hall. “At least we got snacks.”

“Batman.”

He paused. Clark had followed him into the hallway.

“I’ll help you.”

Bruce sucked in a deep breath. A part of him hadn’t wanted this plan to work. He turned around, pulled a receiver out of his belt, and handed it to Clark. “I’ll contact you.”

*

A week later Bruce was in the lab, crouched on a metal roof strut, watching the white coated personal swarming below him. The whole building shook as, somewhere nearby, Clark ripped through another wall.

“Code Blue! Code Blue!”

“Burn the files! Burn them!”

“It’s Superman. Mother of God, it’s Superman.”

A dark woman in a grey suit. “Get yourself together. He’s just a man.”

Another quake.

Bruce watched that woman. She hadn’t sounded panicked, or even concerned. She sounded confident. They kept gathering the files below him and throwing them into the incinerator. He didn’t try to stop them. There was nothing on any of these papers he cared about or didn’t already know.

An alarm went off.

“He’s breached the holding cells!”

“You, and you,” the woman pointed to two black clad guards. “It’s time. On me.” They strode out of the room.

_Finally_.

Bruce followed, covertly. He didn’t want them to be alerted to his presence before they showed him where they kept it. They moved down one corridor, then another, then through a second lab space, this one obviously void of the dangerous secrets the scientists were frantically burning in the other room. Or… perhaps not. The small party had stopped in one corner. The woman slid back a previously invisible panel in the wall and waited while it scanned her palm. A moment later the wall slid back revealing—

Bruce rushed forward.

The first guard went down before he could make a sound. The second just managed a small squeak of shock as Bruce fired a grapple that pinned him immobile, against the wall. The woman spun around. She eyed him the way one predator would eye another.

“Batman.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he shoved by her, reaching into the safe and taking the case of glowing green rocks and weapons designed to use them. They were already wrapped in lead. Good. It would make them easier to transport and hide.

“Tell me one thing,” the woman said as she watched him. “Are you going to use those to kill him?”

He stayed silent.

“Ah,” she smiled knowingly. “You’re trying to protect him. You know we’ll find more.”

“Then I’ll be back.”

He began walking towards the exit.

“You’ve made a mistake,” she called after him. Not angry. Not urgent. Still calm, still in control. “If you wanted to protect him you shouldn’t have come here. You’ve revealed too much.”

He paused, looked over his shoulder. He didn’t need to voice his ‘ _how’_? She heard it, loud and clear.

“You love him,” she said, still smiling. “That’s more useful to me than those rocks could ever be. So thank you, Batman, for giving me that little puppet string. I promise I won’t pull it until absolutely necessary.”

Bruce felt his hands tighten on the box he held. He left the room before he could lose control and moved quickly back down the corridor, towards the exit. He was almost there when the call came in from Clark.

_“Batman? Are you there?”_

“I’m receiving you,” he answered.

_“Okay. Good. I can barely see anything in here. So much lead in the walls. I got the prisoner. I’m going to take him somewhere safe. Are you alright to get out of here by yourself?”_

“Yes. Go.”

_“Okay. See you at the next Justice League meeting. Boy, are they going to be mad at us.”_

“I’m used to it.”

Laughter. Warm, light. It made something in Bruce’s chest tighten. _“Yeah. See you then. Bye.”_

Bruce didn’t bother with farewells. He just kept moving until he was outside climbing into the desert camouflaged batmobile.

_“Nice to see you up so early, sir,”_ Alfred said as he began to drive. _“And, may I be so bold as to enquire as to the other person I heard on the line?”_

“No, Alfred, you may not.”

The butler made a soft noise. Something between a sigh and a snort. _“Well then, in that case, may I just say, I’m happy for you.”_

Bruce sighed. “It was a one time thing, Alfred. I’m not going to work with him again.”

_“Of course, Master Bruce,”_ Alfred’s voice was dripping with scepticism. _“Of course.”_


	13. Chapter 13

The call came in the early evening on the third of May.

Clark was home alone. His parents were out of town for their anniversary and he was taking care of the farm by himself. Honestly, that was fine by him. Ever since he left school he felt like he’d too much time on his hands. It was nice to be given the responsibility of taking care of the family livelihood, if only for a few days.

He spent the morning feeding and milking the cows. In the afternoon he fixed the on the East edge of the property. His mum and dad both hated fencing. It was hard slow work which left their hands cut and sore by the end. Clark though quite liked it. The wire couldn’t hurt him and there was something methodical and relaxing about it. Plus his parents would be so happy when they saw it done.

He’d only just come back into the house when he heard the happy shrill chirp of their phone.

“Hello? This is the Kent residence.”

_“Master Clark.”_

“Hi Alfred. What’s up?”

_“Is Bruce with you?”_

Clark sighed. Bruce had run away again. Though, Clark supposed he was eighteen now. Was it still running away if the person doing the running was a legal adult?

“Not yet. I’ll call you when he gets here.”

_“Thank you.”_

He hung up. Clark grabbed a soft drink out of the fridge and moved to sit on the porch, watching the sun go down. He had to admit, while he knew it always upset Alfred when Bruce disappeared, it was nice getting his surprise visits to the Kent Farm.

Hours passed.

The sun went down. The dogs slept by his feet. He finished his drink slowly, sip by sip.

Bruce didn’t arrive. But that wasn’t surprising. It was a long trip from Gotham to Kansas. Alfred hadn’t told him when Bruce left. Likely, he didn’t know. If he’d just left when Alfred called Clark might not see him for another two days. In fact, it was good if Bruce took longer to arrive. It meant he was driving carefully and taking full rests. He didn’t always.

Clark went inside, fed the dogs, and watched some TV until it was time for bed. He slept deeply, only flickers of dreams dancing around the edge of his subconscious. When the sun rose he walked into town to buy more groceries. It was a long walk, but that was fine. The weather was nice and the dogs liked the opportunity to get off the farm, even if it was just to go into town for a bit.

When he got back he half expected Bruce to be there. He wasn’t. That was fine.

He did some more chores and then sat at the dining room table flicking through his different college acceptance letters. He had four, all for various medical schools. He didn’t know which one he was going to go to yet. His mum had suggested making a list of the pros and cons so he could compare and contrast. It wasn’t a bad idea. He didn’t want to do it on paper though in case his parents saw what some of his ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ were. Likely they wouldn’t think ‘closer to Bruce’ was a good excuse for wanting to go to a university with a poorer reputation. But, then again, maybe they would. Maybe he should ask them. They would be back tomorrow.

He should clean up. Maybe get some flowers into a vase for his mum. She always loved the way the house smelled when there were fresh flowers in it.

He spent an hour doing that. Afterwards he watched same more TV, spoke to Lana on the phone, and read a book until he passed out.

He woke early in the morning. Very early. When he looked at the clock it wasn’t even 3 AM yet.

He wasn’t sure what woke him. The dogs were asleep, Rusty snoring softly and Anabel snoring… not as softly. But that was normal. Downstairs the fridge was humming, the clock ticking, and the electric wires buzzing. All normal. In the nearby paddocks he could hear the cows shifting, some field mice fighting, and an owl beat its wings as it took flight, about to end that fight. Normal. Even the world beyond, a constant haphazard clutter of noise, was quiet. No big events. At least, no loud ones.

He frowned. He always woke up with the sun, unless something disturbed him.

Then he heard it. The small unmistakable sound of metal rasping against metal. It was followed by a click, and then footsteps on stairs. The sounds weren’t coming from the house though, they were coming from the barn.

Was someone breaking into the barn? There was expensive stuff there. Tools, equipment.

He kicked back his blankets, grabbed his jacket, and hurried down to the front porch.

The dogs woke.

“It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay. Good girl. Good boy. I just got to check something.” He pulled on his boots and jogged towards the barn. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find. He was even less sure what he was going to do when he found it. He could grab a pitchfork and yell ‘get off my property!’ like in all the old movies. But what if it was just a homeless person looking for a place to stay? He couldn’t kick them out. What if…

He slowed as he approached the barn and frowned. It was still locked. When he used his xray vision to peer through the walls it was empty. Nothing had been disturbed.

But he’d heard—

“I’m here, Clark.”

Bruce. That was Bruce’s voice. And it had come from… his breath caught in his throat as he saw the storm shelter was open, the lock discarded in the ground. _Oh… Oh no…_

He approached slowly and looked down the dark stairs. There was a hint of light from inside.

He contemplated going back into the house. He could climb back into bed, hide under the covers, and wait until morning. But he knew that wouldn’t make any of this go away.

Slowly, like a man walking to his own execution, he walked down the stairs. The room beyond was small, lit by a small pale white light Bruce was holding, and filled with the wreckage of a spaceship. It had been under a tarp. Bruce had pulled that back and was now sitting on the fuselage, feet in the open infant sized cockpit, studying the exposed machinery.

“Bruce…”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” The boy asked, not looking away from the ship. His face was as white as snow, the strange light cast deep ghostly shadows into the hollow shape of his cheekbones.

“I… I don’t know what you’re…”

“You’re an alien, Clark.”

He felt sick. “No. That’s insane. I’m human. I know I’m human.”

“You fell from the sky in a rocketship.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re adopted but whenever Alfred asked Martha what agency they used she changed the subject. Because I’ve been wondering for years why the storm shelter had the most expensive lock in the whole property on it. Because this…” he reached into the cockpit and pulled out a red blanket with a strange gold symbol stamped onto it. “…has been hastily retrofitted to carry a baby.”

Clark stepped forward, grabbed that blanket, and hastily shoved it back into the cockpit. He didn’t want to see it.

Bruce was still on the ship, studying Clark with his stark silver blue eyes.

“I’m not an alien,” he said, voice higher than it should be. “I can’t be.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, still watching him.

“I-I talked to my dad about it. He said the Soviets used to send cosmonauts out in ships during the space race. Lots of them never returned. They crashed down, somewhere. They had to.”

“You think the Russians put you in a rocket ship? As a baby?”

Clark flinched. “Yeah. Why? You think ‘alien’ makes more sense? That’s ridiculous! Maybe the Soviets did some experiments or something before they put me in. Maybe that’s why I have powers.”

“Clark.”

“Or maybe it was space radiation.”

_“Clark.”_

“I’m not an alien, Bruce. Look at me. Do I look like an alien?”

“This is not a soviet ship.”

“Well… I don’t know… maybe it was someone else then.”

“This is not a _human_ ship.”

“I’m human!” Clark cried. “I have two arms, two legs, two eyes. I have a soulmark. _Your_ soulmark. I’m a person.”

“I never said you weren’t a person, Clark.”

Clark was shaking.

Bruce leant forward and started touching some of the shards of what looked like crystals protruding from the engine.

“Bruce. What are you doing? You shouldn’t—”

“It’s simple, if you ever took a moment to look,” Bruce told him. “Designed to be activated by someone with no knowledge of the technology or language.”

“Activate? Bruce. This is wreck. You can’t—”

A blaze of blue light. Clark grabbed Bruce and hauled him back before he could think. They slammed against the far wall of the shelter and stared as an image appeared in the air, a shimmering blue ball covered in patches of green and brown.

“What’s that?” Clark asked, even though he already knew.

“It’s Earth,” Bruce said. “A map.”

“A map to where?”

As if answering his question the hologram, because that’s what it was, rolled and highlighted a single point, splashed with white.

“The arctic circle,” Bruce told him. “There is something there. Something for you.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

The orb winked out of existence. The storm shelter was dropped back into near total darkness, lit only by the small amount of moonlight able to spill down the stairs and the tiny torch hanging from Bruce’s wrist.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Then…

“You should go there.”

“To the artic? Bruce. I’m not going to the artic. I’m going to college. I’m going to study medicine. I got accepted to a school in Gotham. I decided to go there, so we can be together.”

Bruce was still looking at where the map had been. “This was given to you by your parents. Your birth parents.” His eyes were distant.

“No. The soviets—”

Bruce stepped forward, reached back into the cockpit, and pulled out the red blanket. He looked at it for a long time and then turned back to Clark. “You were not put into this thing by a country trying to win the space race. This isn’t a _flag_. Look at it. This isn’t something you give a baby you’re sending to die. Your parents put you here. They wrapped you in this. They wanted you to be safe, warm.”

Clark had nothing to say to that.

“You should go,” he said again.

“But…”

“Clark.” Bruce wasn’t angry. His voice was soft, almost defeated. “You don’t know what I would give to have a map from my parents. Some guidance. Some _way_. Even just… a letter. Anything. You should go.”

They didn’t say anything else that night. Clark didn’t want to talk anymore, and Bruce seemed to have lost all his energy. Clark took his hand, led him out of the shelter, and into the house. He went into the kitchen to get Bruce something to drink but when he came back Bruce was passed out, unconscious on the sofa.

Clark studied him for a long time. Bruce was very pale, white almost, the shadows under his eyes almost purple. He was even thinner than usual too, and had a lot of bruises on his fists. That was normal. Bruce’s martial arts training always left bruises. But these seemed worse somehow.

He didn’t have anything with him, just the clothes he wore.

Clark grabbed a blanket from the draw and threw it over him then herded the dogs out of the room. He wanted Bruce to get a full sleep and didn’t want Anabel or Rusty deciding to lie on top of him or lick his face in the middle of the night.

He would talk to Bruce in the morning. They would figure everything out. It would be okay.

Clark went back to bed. It took him a long time to get to sleep. He kept thinking about what Bruce said, and what he’d discovered in the storm shelter. For years Clark had pretended that small concrete bunker and the secret in it didn’t exist. He’d believed his father’s speculation on soviets even though a part of him had always known it didn’t quite fit. Bruce was right. The ship, the blanket…

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to think about this. He wanted to think about university, and Bruce, and their future together. The past didn’t matter. Where they’d come from didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Bruce was an orphan. It didn’t matter that Clark was an… no. He didn’t want to use that word. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered as their life together. It was about to start, in earnest, and it would be perfect. He’d become a doctor and help Bruce overcome his demons. That’s what he wanted to focus on. That was all that mattered.

He woke up with a start.

The dogs were barking, there were footsteps in the foyer. “Clark! We’re home!”

He leapt out of bed and rushed down the stairs, still in his pyjamas. “Mum! Dad! Be quiet! Bruce is—”

He skidded to a stop in the living room. The sofa was empty. The blanket he’d thrown over Bruce folded neatly and set in the middle cushion. Clark used his xray vision to check the house, then the barn, then the whole farm. Bruce was gone.

He felt his shoulders sag.

“Honey?” His mum poked her head around the corner. “What’s wrong? Is Bruce here?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I like the flowers. And we saw the fence coming in. Did you do that?”

“Yeah. Um. Sorry. I have a call to make.” He grabbed the receiver off the wall and dialled the familiar number.

Alfred answered immediately. _“Good morning. Is that you, Master Clark?”_

“Yes. It’s me. Um. Bruce was here last night but he left this morning. He should be home in a couple of days. When he does tell him to call me. I want to talk to him.”

_“I will. Thank you for calling.”_


	14. Chapter 14

His name was J'onn J'onzz and he was from Mars. At first, Clark thought he was mistaken. Clark had been to Mars. He’d seen the endless deserts of red sand and stone. He’d sat on top of Olympus Mons and watched the slow sunset. He’d traced a name he tried not to think about any more in the dirt. He knew there was no civilisation there, let alone one as grand as the green skinned alien described.

But then J’onn J’onzz told Clark what had happened.

His plant had been at war with itself. White Martians and Green Martians had killed each other in the hundreds, then the thousands, then the millions, and finally the billions. Weakened and divided as they were there was nothing the people of Mars could do when a foreign alien force attacked.

The cities of Mars were all destroyed. The people killed. J’onn J’onzz, along with a handful of other survivors, fled.

This happened at approximately 7642 BCE, by Earth’s reckoning.

The craft J’onn J’onzz had been in was not outfitted for interplanetary travel, nor did it have any course in mind. It just floated, pulled this way and that by the forces of gravity, merely a pod that shielded the inhabitant from the harsh rays of the sun and the extreme cold of space. J’onn said he hibernated, as his species does, unaware of the passage of time, until he crashed to Earth and was taken hostage by the US government in 1953 CE.

He’d learnt language by listening to the soldiers’ thoughts, and asked to see his brethren. That was when he’d been told he was the only survivor.

J’onn J’onzz been held by the US Government ever since.

It was a story recounted without any obvious signs of emotion or grief. Even so, it made Clark feel strangely guilty for his own relatively smooth arrival on this planet. He’d never realised how privileged he was to be in the ship he was in, how lucky he’d been to be found by his mother and father, or how close he came to a life in a lab, just like J’onn.

He’d also never really thought about how lucky it was that he looked human. J’onn didn’t. He had green skin, red eyes with no pupil, and a large elongated head. However, after only a few weeks recovering at the Kent farm (his parents had been surprised when he showed up on the doorstep with J’onn but not unwilling to help, or serve some of their famous homemade icecream) J’onn gained a very useful ability.

He should shape shift into almost anything he wanted, including a human.

And that wasn’t all.

He could also fly, read minds, walk through walls, and was pretty freaking strong too. Clark challenged him to an arm wrestling contest and was a little relieved, but also oddly disappointed, when he learnt he was still the strongest being on the planet.

J’onn began helping out when Clark went on missions as Superman. It didn’t take the press long to notice. J’onn told a (heavily) edited version of his backstory to Lois and she in tern dubbed him ‘The Martain Manhunter’ in her front page article.

And just like that the world had another superhero.

As predicted, the Justice League were less than impressed with Batman and Superman going behind their backs to complete the mission but J’onn quickly won them over by bringing copious amounts of cookies and cakes to his first Justice League meeting. Apparently he’d saved the residents of a retirement home from a flood and they were paying him back in treats… which Flash was more than happy to help clean up.

Batman wasn’t at that meeting which was typical. That black glad drama goth never did what he was told. It was oddly endearing… though Clark wasn’t sure why.

Cyborg was at the meeting though. He didn’t say anything, just chewed on a brownie and listened to the conversation. About halfway through J’onn approached him.

“I hear you are to thank for my rescue,” he said in his trademark monotone.

Cyborg was thrown off for a second. “Eh? Oh… um… yeah. I found the lab.”

“I’m grateful.”

“It was pretty hard. They had some crazy tech on it.”

Clark frowned. “I thought you hacked in accidentally?”

“Huh? No. I mean, I do that a lot too. I hack into people’s phones all the time without meaning too. But this place was locked up tight. I had to _focus_ to get in.”

“Why’d you hack it?”

Cyborg looked confused. “Because Batman told me too. That was the mission, right? Find the anti-alien division. Find out where they were, what they had. I honestly didn’t expect the Martain. Batman told me to look for radiation based weapons.”

“What about the fourth motherbox?”

“What fourth motherbox?”

“The one Batman was trying to find the location of,” he pushed.

Cyborg was squinting at him like he was speaking another language. “Dude. Why would _Batman_ do that? I’m the one that can speak to Apokalpis tech.”

“So no fourth motherbox?”

“No, man. If there was I would hear it, for sure. Those things can’t shut up. It’s all hail Darkseid this and hail Darkseid that. Honestly. It’s worse than pop music. But only just.”

So… Batman had lied to him…

_Superman._ J’onn spoke without speaking, his voice echoing in Clark’s mind.

Clark startled a little but quickly settled. He was still getting used to that.

_Is there a reason we’re not speaking out loud, J’onn?_

_Yes. I think this should be for your knowledge only._

_What?_

_The radiation based weapons the young Cyborg speaks of, those that were acquired by the Bat-Man…_

_Yes?_ Clark asked, awkwardly aware that he was still standing in front of Cyborg and not saying anything but not able to focus on two conversations at once. _Can you tell me later?_

_…they were designed to kill you._

Clark went cold. Every fibre of him, from the cells in his brain down to the skin on the tips of his toes.

“Are you okay?” Cyborg asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Yeah,” he rasped and forced a smile. “Yeah sorry. I just… I remembered there is something I need to do.”

*

Bruce got the call late, just as he was finishing up his patrol. At first, when he heard the audio pop in his receiver that meant the line had opened, he thought it was Alfred. The man could never go too long without telling him off for something. He opened his mouth to tell him he’d be home soon. Before the words were out of his mouth a voice he hadn’t been expected sounded in his ear.

_“Batman?”_

It was Clark.

He paused. He was on an apartment building rooftop, on the way back to where he’d parked the batmobile.

_“Batman? Are you there?”_

He was using the receiver Bruce had given him when they broke into the lab together.

“I’m busy,” Bruce said. “Destroy your receiver.”

_“I need to talk.”_

“I’m busy.”

_“It’s urgent. Can I see you now?”_

He should say no. A part of him wanted to say no. In fact, that is what he’d intended to say. But, for some reason, those were not the words that came out of his mouth. “Gotham Tower. Ten minutes.” He pulled the grapple from his belt and began running towards his chosen rendezvous.

_“Thank you,”_ Clark said, voice soft and familiar, as Bruce leapt into the air.

It took him eight minutes and twenty nine seconds to get to the top of that tower. Clark arrived exactly one minute and thirty one seconds later. Bruce watched him descend out of the clouds, cape flying back, and face eerily blank. Both beautiful and terrifying. It occurred to Bruce perhaps it wasn’t a good idea meeting here. Perhaps he should have chosen a spot with more escape routes.

“I don’t like other heroes in my city,” he said.

Clark’s lips thinned. “Yeah. Well. I’m not exactly a huge fan of Gotham myself. But I had to see you.”

“Why?”

Clark didn’t answer at first. He seemed to be weighing up his words carefully. Finally…

“This won’t take long. I just wanted to… ah hell…” some of his composure broke. The blankness on his face dropping away to reveal an odd mix of embarrassment and annoyance. “I just wanted to give you something.”

Bruce was frowning, confused. “What?”

“Look I… I don’t know how to say this. I, um, I know you lied to me.”

Bruce didn’t move.

“I know you didn’t go into that lab looking for data on a motherbox. I know the real thing you were looking for.”

Bruce began comparing and contrasting the few escape routes he did have.

“It’s called Kyrptonite, by the way. That weird glowing green stone. It hurts me, and saps my powers. But… well… you knew that already. Lex Luthor – yeah, that Lex Luthor – found some and tried to use it against me a few months back. If it wasn’t for his assistant having a change of heart I probably would have died.”

Bruce felt a surge of heat wash through him, followed by an icey cold. It was strange realising there was someone in the world he hated more than the Joker.

“Anyway…” Clark reached into a pocket in his cape and pulled out a small box. He handed it to Bruce.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the Kryptonite Luthor used against me. It’s not much. Not compared to what you already took. But… I thought I’d give it to you.”

Bruce didn’t know what to say except… “Why would you give me this? I could kill you.”

“Yeah. But, I know you. I mean, I don’t know you well, and I have been wrong about people before, but you saved those people during the invasion, and I work in news, so I’ve seen some of the other stuff you do. I trust you to keep that safe. Hell, you can probably keep it way safer than I can. And, if I ever do become some sort of evil space warlord, I trust you to use it.”

Bruce stared at him. _Trust._ “You can’t mean that…”

“I do, actually. I was shocked when I found out you lied, and what you took, but the more I thought about it the more I realised there is no one in the world I would rather have kryptonite then you. Because, this is going to sound odd, but I know you could defeat me if you wanted to. And, I also know you wouldn’t, unless I crossed a line.”

“Is the Martian here?” Bruce asked. “Is he reading my mind? Is this a test?”

A genuine smile broke out on Clark’s face. “No. I swear it. No tricks. But, anyway, it’s pretty late and I have work tomorrow.” He lifted off the rooftop. “See you later, Batman.”

“Clark,” he called him.

“Ha,” the smile on Clark’s face grew. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t agree to the Justice League unless you knew all of our identities.”

“No. That’s not it.”

“You don’t know all our identities?”

“I do. But that’s not—”

“Not what?”

Bruce didn’t know the answer to that. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell Clark. He wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t hurt him.

Clark laughed softly. “It’s okay, Batman. I’ll see you.”

A moment later he was gone. Bruce stayed where he was, standing on the roof, holding the small box. He flipped it open to look at the kryptonite inside. It was small, but had a strong glow. It was also affixed to a ring.

_“Quite the gift,”_ Alfred commented, voice as dry as ever, in his ear.

Bruce closed the box and put it in his belt. He didn’t say anything.


	15. Chapter 15

“You should remove your soulmark.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He was in the dark, crouched, ready, waiting, and listening, not to the man but to the space around him. There was water dripping from a stalactite on his left. A steady persistent sound.

“It is a weakness. One your enemies can exploit. One _I_ could exploit.”

That drop of water hitting the stone was what his attackers would use to cover the sound of their movement. He had to listen carefully…

“Tell me. Do you keep it because you are afraid what will happen if you remove it? Are you afraid God himself will descend from the heavens to strike you down for defying the destiny he wrote for you?”

Nothing. Perhaps there were no attackers in the cave with him. That had happened before. He’d knelt for hours, every nerve in his body on edge, waiting for them to strike…

“No. You don’t seem to be the religious type. But perhaps you do, despite everything, have some small hope in you. Some hope for a normal happy life. Perhaps you think your soulmate will come and save you from all of this.”

Wait. What was that? Was it…?

“Or perhaps you’re just a sentimental fool. One who can’t let go of his past, or his future, to do what needs to be done.”

A sound.

Bruce moved. A moment there was a loud crack as the bamboo cane struck the ground where he’d been crouching. It was too dark to see but Bruce didn’t need to see. All he needed to do was fight. He ducked again, anticipating the strike which whistled as it swung over his head, and in a rapid series of moves stole the weapon and swept his attacker’s legs. It wasn’t enough, but that wasn’t a surprise. He didn’t fight novices anymore.

Another sound.

Bruce brought up the cane just in time. A second cane struck it with another loud crack. He fought back the new attacker, moving blindly but as silently as he could, each step in time with the water, still falling from the stalactite and hitting the stone. A steady beat which dictated the dance.

The first attacker was coming back. They were winded, slow, their footsteps not quite in time with the water.

Bruce deliberately kicked a stone, the noise near deafening in the narrow cave and leapt to the side. It was a simple ruse but it worked. Hearing the noise, assuming he’d made a mistake, both attackers rushed forward and for a few short seconds were in combat with each other.

Those seconds were all he needed. Bruce moved behind the armed attacker and brought him down with three swift strikes. The unarmed one was surprised but put up a good fight. It took almost a minute for Bruce to subdue them.

“You show adequate improvement.”

The lights in the cave flared to life, blinding. Bruce didn’t flinch.

The other two fighters scrambled, as best they could, to their feet and bowed. Bruce threw down his weapon and turned to face the newcomer, tipping his head as the others did when he saw him.

“But there is still much for you to learn,” Ra’s al Ghul told him. “But first… dinner.” He barked an instruction at the other two people in the cave. They moved out quickly without a word. “Follow,” Ra’s told him and began striding out of the cave.

Bruce obeyed.

That night dinner was lavish, the drink intoxicating, and the air filled with sweet smelling smoke. Bruce saw it for what it was. Another test. He didn’t touch any of it.

Ra’s watched him, amusement shining bright in his unnaturally green eyes. Around them the other guests were gorging themselves. Some were recruits like him. Most were local leaders and people of power. A few were businessmen who didn’t know the danger they were in but thrilled to be part of the secret club.

“Does my father’s table not satisfy you?”

He turned his head. Talia al Ghul, the master’s daughter, had moved silently to sit beside him, her dark eyes locked onto his. And this… this was a temptation he did not expect. Because that’s what she was. Everything from the slight tilt of her head to the way her hair fell on her bare shoulder had been arranged to tempt him.

“I am not hungry.”

“Hm,” she reached out and with the authority of a person touching property took his chin in her hand and pulled him into a deep throttling kiss. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t engage with her either. His eyes were open and through them he saw Ra’s, still watching, still amused.

Talia wasn’t. She pulled back with a disappointed sound. “Stand.”

He obeyed.

She rose, took his hand, and led him to the hearth in the middle of the room.

“What is happening?” One of the businessmen asked in stiff English.

_“My daughter is about to demonstrate the dedication of our recruits.”_

Bruce knew what was coming. He’d expected it for a long time. He’d been preparing for it.

“Strip,” Talia told him.

He did a he was told. In three quick movements he was naked, standing by the fire. A few of the onlookers gasped when they saw the extent of his injuries. He was covered in bruises, newly stitched wounds, and scars. But that didn’t matter. In fact, it helped him.

Talia stalked around him, her eyes sharp. Eventually her hand came up to trace the letters on his collarbone.

“Julie Madison,” she read the name aloud.

He didn’t say anything.

“Have you ever found her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She died.”

It was a simple lie, but an effective one. Much like the tattoo on his collarbone. Simple but effective. He’d done it himself a year before when he’d first come to the compound. His true soulmark he hid with ash rubbed into his skin. It made the bruises look worse and obscured Clark’s name.

“Did you kill her?” Talia asked.

The question surprised him but he didn’t show it. “No.”

“Hm. Pity.” She leant close. “You know what I’m going to do to you now, don’t you?”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “Yes.”

“It reflects badly on you that you haven’t done this yourself.”

_“This body is not mine,”_ he quoted the lesson in Arabic. It was one of the first things they’d taught him here. Something he hadn’t quite bought but was happy to parrot as long as it let him train under Ra’s al Ghul.

Ra’s laughed, no doubt well aware of Bruce’s true thoughts on the rhetoric.

Talia smiled. “No. It is not.” She pulled a hot poker out of the fire.

Bruce kept his eyes forward and forced himself not to flinch when the red hot metal touched his flesh. Slowly, meticulously, Talia removed the tattoo from his skin.

The truth was he didn’t know why he’d gone to so much trouble to hide his true soulmark. It would be safer for Clark if Bruce didn’t have his name on him. Ra’s was right. His enemies could and would use his soulmark against him if they could. But every time Bruce contemplated parting with the name on his side he found he couldn’t do it.

He just… couldn’t. So he hid it and, whenever he got a few hours of privacy, touched up the tattoo on his collarbone to keep it dark. He supposed he would be spared that particular chore now.

The people around the table watching with a mix of amazement and horror on their faces. One looked like he was going to be sick. Another looked aroused. Ra’s al Ghul looked as he did before. Quietly amused.

To his shame Bruce gasped in pain when Talia removed the iron and replaced it with a cool cloth.

She smiled, thrilled by that small victory, and raised her free hand. “Wine.”

A servant rushed forward with a goblet and handed it to her with a bow. She raised it to Bruce lips and tipped it back.

He drank… and realised a moment too late as the bitter flavour flared on his tongue that it was a mistake.

A soft voice in his ear. “You’re free of her, Beloved. You’re free.”


	16. Chapter 16

The Justice League was six months old when it faced Earth’s second alien invasion. This one was smaller than the last, quieter, but the threat no less grave.

It began with a message broadcasted on every device capable of broadcasting messages. It began without pomp and circumstance. No logos, no thrilling intro, just a blank white room and a man wearing a strange black and grey uniform. His hair was streaked with silver, his face gaunt, and his eyes inhumanly blue.

It was a shade of blue Bruce had seen before… had even contemplated late at night.

_“Greetings citizens of the nations of Earth,”_ he began, his accent thick and strange. _“My name is General Zod. I am the last surviving governmental authority for the planet Krypton. For the past twenty six years, by your reckoning, Earth has harboured one of my citizens. His name is Kal-El though you know him as Superman.”_

That was the moment Bruce stopped watching and started acting. He knew what this man was about to ask. He wanted Superman. Bruce needed to stop Clark before he gave him that. Because he would. The goddamned self-sacrificing idiot. He would throw himself away in a heartbeat if he thought it meant protecting people.

He tried the receiver. No answer. He called the Daily Planet and was put on hold by a receptionist. He called Clark’s apartment and went straight to voice mail. He began frantically searching for Clark Kent’s mobile phone number. Did the man even have a mobile? A pager? _Anything_.

_“…to Kal-El I say this. Surrender yourself. You are a deserter, but the fault of that betrayal is not yours. There are so few of our kind left, and you the only known survivor of the House of El, the only one bioengineered for science and discovery. Me and my disciples hail from the houses Zod, Ul, and Non. Warrior houses. We need you if we are to rebuild Krypton.”_

“No no no…” Bruce snarled and left his office and began running for the elevator that would take him down to the basement level of Wayne Enterprises. There was a batsuit there, still in development, but it would have to do. He needed to find Clark. He needed to stop him before...

_“If you do not surrender yourself I will kill the citizens of Earth at a rate of one million per hour starting one hour from now. I do not enjoying sullying myself this way, but it is clear you care for them, and the interests of Krypton must come first.”_

The transmission cut.

Bruce’s heart was pounding. He reached the elevator, stepped in, and let it scan his handprint. A moment later he was plummeting towards the ground.

But he was already too late.

He saw him through the glass wall of the elevator. A flash of red and blue across Gotham’s grey sky.

“Clark!” Bruce yelled. “We have an hour! Don’t throw that away!”

But he was gone before Bruce finished yelling his name.

By the time he got to the basement Lucius Fox already had the suit out and ready to go. Alfred was on the line, his voice echoing in the concrete room.

_“…cannot track the transmission itself. However, because I anticipated Superman flying over Gotham I was able to get a lock on him via satellite.”_

Lucius. “How did you know Superman would fly over Gotham, Alfred?”

_“A butler never reveals his secrets, Mr Fox. He’s heading north. Bound for…”_

“The arctic circle,” Bruce said, still getting his suit on. “I can get there within the hour if I use the rocket.”

“Mr Wayne,” Lucius looked worried. “The rocket isn’t ready. I don’t know if it will ever be ready.”

“We don’t have a choice, Lucius.”

“Actually. You do. And he’s standing right here.”

Bruce froze and looked up slowly.

Green Lantern slid out from behind a batmobile, a very pleased with himself grin plastered across his face. Despite General Zod’s message, despite knowing his soulmate was flying off to throw himself into the mouth of the monster, despite _everything_ , Bruce had to fight back the urge to punch that grin.

But then he realised…

He wasn’t wearing his cowl. He was getting into the suit but his face was still bare.

“Lucius. You revealed my identity.”

“Actually, I figured it out by myself,” Hal said. “Which, I know, you’re probably really upset that I was able to out-detective the world’s greatest—”

“Your name is Hal Jordan.”

“Ah… okay… so we’ll call it a draw.”

“He showed up just before you did,” Lucius admitted. “I thought you must have told him, Mr Wayne.”

“Anyway,” Hal dusted some invisible dust off his shoulder. “That’s not important. What’s important is you need a ride and I just happen to have the ring that can get you there.”

“Flash could do it faster,” Bruce said.

“Okay. First thing. Flash isn’t here. And second… If you think my boy would willingly piggyback your two hundred pound arse three thousand miles you’ve got another thing coming.”

Bruce was grinding his teeth. “Fine.” He pulled the cowl up. “Let’s go.”

*

Clark was at the Daily Planet when General Zod’s ultimatum aired. He remembered feeling oddly calm as he watched the man who had waged war on Krypton during her final days threaten the lives of every human on Earth.

He knew where he was. There was only one place on the planet with the technology to broadcast like this. The Fortress of Solitude. AKA, the ancient Kryptonian outpost built on Earth sometime between two and ten million years ago. The one his birth father had used to plot the course for Clark’s ship when he was an infant.

Zod was Kryptonian. He would be able to find and track that same signal, pick up the key Clark had left on the doorstep, and access the controls. If that wasn’t proof enough, the stark white background on the footage glinted oddly when Clark focused on it, as if made of crystal.

Zod was at the Fortress. That meant Clark had to go there and stop him.

He slipped out of the newsroom while everyone discussed in hushed terrified voices what they’d seen, went into the elevator with the broken camera, and – when the doors closed – flew up through a small trap door in the roof of the elevator and into the shaft.

He was probably going to die today.

It was strange how unafraid he was by that thought. He knew what he needed to do, and he knew the likely outcome. The funny thing was how quickly and how perfectly it put his life into perspective. He thought about how lucky he’d been to have such loving accepting parents, he thought about how proud he was of his job, and how happy he was that he decided to become Superman, and he thought of Bruce.

_God Bruce…_

He hadn’t allowed himself to think about him for so long.

He thought about the blue eyed boy that had arrived on the farm, shy and strange. But that had been okay. He was Clark’s soulmate, so Clark had loved him without question. He thought about how that love had deepened and grown as he’d come to know him. He thought about all of Bruce’s odd interests. Fast cars, martial arts. He thought about kissing him in the snow, and in the heat, and in the water, and in the bed.

He thought about the fear and uncertainty Clark had felt when he was gone, followed by a slow creeping grief. He thought about how that grief had turned dark with anger and betrayal when he found out Bruce was alive.

Clark was hovering over Metroplis now. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at the signature there. Small and spikey. Bruce. His Bruce.

He had to see him one more time, despite everything that had happened. He needed to see him, then he could die.

Clark took off towards Gotham. The last time he’d been here he’d come to give Batman the kryptonite ring he took from Luthor. He hoped Batman was getting that ring ready now. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stop Zod. In fact, he doubted it. It was good knowing there was a second line of defence for when he failed.

He slowed as he flew passed Wayne Enterprises. It was a big building. Tall, square, and foreboding. But Bruce wasn’t hard to find. He was in a glass elevator on the side of the building, frowning as he looked up at the sky.

Damn it… even after everything… he was still beautiful.

More so, in fact. He wasn’t the skinny boy Clark remembered. He wasn’t the drunken playboy either. He had pink to his cheeks that had nothing to do with alcohol, and filled out his clothes in a way that suggested he was more than a little used to exercise. His jaw had darkened with stubble and his hair was longer and slicked back from his temple. It suited him.

One thing hadn’t changed though. Those eyes. Sometimes grey, sometimes pale blue, and bright with intelligence. They almost seemed to be looking right at him.

Clark sighed. “Goodbye Bruce.” Then, before he could change his mind, he turned and began flying North.

*

“Faster!”

“I am literally travelling at a thousand miles every five minutes.”

“You fly between planets in minutes.”

“Oh thank you for pointing that out. I forgot! Silly me! Wait, no, actually, when the ring pulls me through space that fast I become a one man particle accelerator. Do you know what that means? It means little mini black holes everywhere. Nothing to worry about, in space. Here on Earth? Something to worry about. I can’t fly that fast on inhabited worlds.”

“Superman does it,” Bruce shot back. “And Flash.”

“Yeah. Flash has got his speedforce thing. And Superman? Honestly. I have no idea what’s going on there. Me? I have to at least _pretend_ I’m following the laws of physics. But, hey, I got to say, me lecturing you about basic facts while you mouth off at me has been a fun bit of role reversal. We should do this again some time.”

Bruce was standing in the glowing green bubble tethered to Hal’s ring. They’d stopped by the manor to pick up the kryptonite weapons and he had both the ring on his finger as well as a radiation cannon slung across his back.

_“Jeez. Do you have as much stuff for taking me down?”_ Hal had asked.

He hadn’t answered.

They were almost at the North Pole now. Alfred had tracked Superman’s flight path so they knew exactly where they were going. It would still take a few more minutes to get there.

“How did you know?” Bruce asked.

“What?” Hal looked back at him.

“My identity. How did you figure it out?”

Hal grinned. “It’s really eating you up inside not knowing, huh?”

Low. Angry. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Sure. But don’t be mad. I spied on Superman getting changed.”

It took a few seconds for Bruce to regain control of his breathing.

“Okay. You’re mad. I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Don’t worry, Bats. I didn’t look at anything interesting. I just wanted to check out his soulmark. Because, you probably know, my soulmark isn’t exactly something a human would sign their names as, and my ring won’t translate it which means it’s in a language that the Guardians don’t have access too. Like… Kryptonian. Krypton hated the Green Lantern Corps. Shot us out of the sky whenever we got too close. I figured I’d check… just in case. After all, Superman’s a hell of a catch. If it was my Christmas tree he was under I’d want to unwrap that sooner rather than—”

“Please stop talking.”

“Too much detail? Sorry about that. I’ll cut to the good stuff,” Hal continued. “I saw his soulmark. That’s the important part of this story. It said ‘Bruce Wayne’. I thought, huh, that’s weird. Isn’t that the rich guy in Gotham that was in the news last year? Wait a sec. Isn’t there another rich guy in Gotham I know? One who is so clearly madly in love with Superman?”

“I got it.”

“Yeah. Honestly, I was almost certain I was wrong. But then I went to Wayne Enterprises, did some intel, and found out a batsuit or two in the basement. I honestly wasn’t ever going to do anything about it… but… well… now we’re going up against some evil Supermen and I figured Superman’s soulmate probably would be a useful thing to have. Especially one as weird and batshit as you. I was sure you’d have some anti-Superman weapons for days he pissed you off and sure enough—what the hell is that?”

Hal slowed down as they came up on what looked, at a glance, like a mountain of ice. Except it wasn’t. For one thing, it was glowing. Another useful hint that it wasn’t what it seemed to be was there was an open door in one side.

“Well shit. Okay. Did you know your soulmate had a secret artic base?”

*

“You don’t need to hurt anyone,” Clark said. They were speaking English but only because Zod assumed he knew no Kryptonian. Clark wasn’t going to correct that assumption.

“No,” Zod agreed. “But the threat worked. You are here.” He shook his head and laughed. “You look like your father, Kal-El, but you are not. He would never have given in so easily. Still, I have been admiring your collection, I see you have that inquisitive mind your house was bred for, not to mention the fine features.”

Clark felt his skin crawl. “I need you to promise you won’t hurt the people of Earth.”

“I make no such promises. You are a child, Kal-El. I am the last General of Krypton. I am, by law, your master.”

“You lost all rank when you were banished to the Phantom Zone.”

A pause. Long. Weighted.

“Ah,” Zod turned to face him fully. “So you know something of our history after all.”

Around them the other two Kryptonians – a woman with short dark hair and a flat faced man built like a barn – watched with alien blue eyes. He didn’t know if they understood enough English to follow the conversation.

“I know a little. What my father recorded for me.”

“Jor-El. He was… particular in the way he saw things. Tell me, Kal-El, can you read our letters?”

“A bit,” he confessed.

“Can you read this?” Zod pulled his sleeve back, showing his wrist. There was a soulmark there. Small. Just two symbols. The double slash followed by an S shape in a shield.

Clark’s eyes widened. “T-that’s my father’s name. Jor-El.”

Zod smiled. “So you see. We are family. What Jor-El may or may not have told you is irrelevant. He was a brilliant Kryptonian… but he lost his way. He failed to understand certain necessities, and it lead to both his downfall and mine.”

“No.” Clark shook his head. “You radicalised an army after Kandor was lost. You attacked Kryptonopolis. You tried to seize power when you should have been helping people evacuate.”

“If I had succeeded in overthrowing the council I could have moved everyone off the planet. Krypton would have lived on in her people. We wouldn’t have to rebuild from the scraps of bloodlines we have left.”

“Your armada shot down those attempting to flee. All except for me, because my ship was too small to be detected by your ship’s sensors.”

“They were deserters. I had not given permission to—”

“The planet was _imploding_.”

“And I was in the Phantom Zone. I couldn’t change my protocols.”

“Your protocols… To stop deserters? You really expect me to believe that? You shot down those ships because you wanted people to witness your glorious assent to King of Krypton. The first in millennia. You wanted to force all houses to swear loyalty to you. And when you lost, when you were captured and banished, you didn’t change your orders because you were lazy, petty… and because you didn’t believe Krypton was imploding. Or, if you did, you thought you had weeks, months, years even. You didn’t listen to my father.”

“No one listened to your father, boy,” Zod snapped. “He was mad.”

“He was right.”

“He has brainwashed you. From his grave. It is a shame. I had hoped we could be civil.” He sighed. “Still. I am glad he saved you. He betrayed me when we were young men. He refused to join my army. We never built a child together. Instead he found Lara, and made you. I found Ursa. You may not be him… but you are close enough. I can create what I need from you.”

Clark recoiled in shock and horror. “What?”

“I made some mistakes, Kal-El. I know that. I see now what this mark on my skin meant. It was telling me the way to save Krypton was to join the two schools of thought. Science and War. Together. One bloodline.”

“No…”

“I’m not giving you a choice, Kal-El.”

The other two kryptonians stepped forward, evidently understanding enough to know a fight was about to happen.

“But don’t worry. The process is painless.”

“What about Earth?” Clark said. “What about the people of Earth? If I…” he shuddered “…agree… will you let them live? Will you leave them alone?”

Zod smiled. “The boy does like his pets. Don’t worry, Kal. I won’t hurt them. I will have to cull their numbers to reasonable levels, of course. Something I am surprised you haven’t done already. But apart from—”

“Okay. I’ve heard about enough of this creepy bullshit.”

Clark spun around and his eyes widened as he saw Green Lantern and Batman stride into the cave. A moment later, in an eruption of lighting, Flash appeared.

“Hi guys. Sorry I’m late. Took forever to find the place.”

“Where are the others?” Batman asked.

“Aquaman? No clue.”

Green Lantern. “Probably shagging a dolphin somewhere.”

“Diana? She’s with the UN. She’s going to protect the world leaders. Cyborg? He’s how we figured out where you were. Hacked into Batman’s communication. Sorry about that, Bats. And J’onn? He’s…”

“Here.” The green alien appeared.

Clark stared at them all. They came. They all actually came. He didn’t think they would. But that was stupid. Of course they would. They were heroes. Brilliant and brave. He wanted to hug each and every one of them. Even Batman who was indeed wearing his kryptonite ring.

The Green Lantern was the one that had spoken when they first appeared and he was the one that General Zod’s attention was on.

“So Kal… you betray Krypton… for Oa.”

“Nope,” Green Lantern popped the p. “This ain’t got anything to do with Oa, pal. You see, this pretty little planet here is my home and you saying you’re going to ‘cull’ my friends and family? Yeah. You better believe this is personal. Also, Big Blue here is my friend. I’m not letting him face you alone.”

General Zod was not impressed. In fact, his eyes were quickly losing their blue and becoming a sharp shade of red. This time, when he spoke, it was in Kryptonian. _“Kill them. Kill them all.”_

*

It wasn’t a long fight but it was a brutal one.

Bruce saw Hal’s shield shatter when the first Kryptonian ran into it. Clark had been going soft on him during training. Still, that training did help because Hal did exactly as he’d been taught and threw himself into Barry’s arms who quickly removed him from the Kryptonian’s grasp. J’onn grabbed the Kryptonian before it could follow and transformed into a massive snarling dragon as they wrestled.

Clark took on Zod and the strikes they dealt each other cracked like thunder.

That left the female for Bruce.

She strode towards him, her eyes unblinking and hungry. “Little human,” she said, voice so soft he had to strain to hear it. “Why do you wear a mask I cannot see through? Take it off. I want to see your pain, your fear.”

A sadist. Good. It meant she wouldn’t kill him straight away if she got the upper hand.

She rushed forward, a blur of motion, and struck. Bruce caught the blow on his forearm, flinching at the impact, but holding.

Her eyes went wide.

He spun around and punched her across the face. The ring on his hand flashed a dull green. She staggered back, spat blood. “Ah. That feeling. I know it. Kryptonite. You use the ruins of my own home against me.”

He rushed forward. She moved back, fluid as water. She was a trained warrior, with or without her powers. This fight wasn’t over.

They circled. Eyes on each other. Watching. Waiting.

Bruce remembered his years training with Ra’s al Ghul. He remembered the dark cave and the water dripping down. A distraction. That’s all he needed.

A flash of lightening, a blaze of green, and Hal and Barry dove back into the fight to help J’onn. The woman didn’t flinch. Neither did Bruce. A crash as Clark and Zod dove through a wall. Still neither of them flinched. This was turning into a very intense staring contest. But then… Clark cried out in pain. Bruce fought the urge to turn, to run to him. He knew Clark could do this. He trusted him. A moment later Zod roared in agony.

The woman turned her head. Bruce struck.

The fight was rough, savage, and Bruce grunted as he felt one of his ribs snap under her blows. It didn’t matter. In the end she was the one lying unconscious on the ground, not him. A moment later Hal, Barry, and J’onn managed to bring their one down.

“Yeah!” Hal cried. “Take _that_ you ugly super powered motherfucker! Douche nozzle! Dickbag! Fat head! I really hope you understand English because my ring can’t translate that into Kryptonese or whatever it is for you.”

A figure appeared between them. Tall, imposing, in red robes with the Kryptonian blue eyes.

Hal. “Oh jeez. Not another one.”

Bruce wasn’t so quick to despair. This Kryptonian had appeared out of thin air… and was wearing Superman’s crest on his shoulder. Not to mention those cheekbones were startling familiar.

“Jor-El,” Bruce guessed though he couldn’t understand how that could be. “You’re Kal’s father.” A ghost. A protection. It didn’t matter. Clark had found his birth father here. He’d had that guidance. That love…

“I have opened the Phantom Zone,” the long dead Kryptonian said, looking between them. “I will lead you to it so you can return these two to where they belong. You must move quickly. They will return to full power soon in this place.” Those unnatural blue eyes fell on Bruce and the kryptonite on his hand. “You help my son.”

Bruce didn’t need to be told twice. He took off at a run towards the ruined wall which Clark and Zod had thrown themselves through. He used his grapple gun to swing over the rubble, raced down one stark white corridor, clambered through another wrecked wall into another… and then he saw them. Zod had Clark in a headlock and was pushing him into the ground.

“…worthless. Just like your father.” Zod stopped as he saw Bruce. His eyes unfocused for a second as he looked through the walls, no doubt checking on the status of his followers. He snarled when he saw they were defeated. “You think you have won, human?”

“Let him go,” Bruce said.

“Gladly.” He threw Clark at him.

Bruce had kryptonite on his hand. He couldn’t catch him. That would just hurt Clark. He rolled out of the way.

“Ha!” Zod cried. “You see, Kal-El. They don’t care for you. They only care what you can do for them.”

“Give up, Zod,” Clark cried out. “You’ve lost.”

“Have I? Perhaps I have.” He hovered, eyes glowing red. “You are wrong about me, Kal-El. I believed your father, even in the end. He was mad, but he was brilliant. I knew he was not wrong. I knew Krypton was destined for destruction. I knew it was soon. I set my armada to fire on those leaving the planet because they were the people that chose to fight me. They cheered when I went into the Phantom Zone… so you see… even in defeat there can be… satisfaction.”

He flew up, ripping a hole in the roof of the ice like building they were in, and away with a sonic boom.

“He’s going to kill people,” Clark said.

“As many as he can before we can stop him,” Bruce agreed and ripped off the ring, throwing it aside.

“I can’t defeat him. He’s too strong.”

“We can. Together,” Bruce strode towards him and wrapped an arm around Clark. “Take me. Fly after him.”

Clark looked at him and down to the radiation canon slung across him. “That’s got kryptonite in it doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Will it kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

Clark’s lips thinned. He pulled Bruce close. “Let’s get him.”

A moment later the world disappeared in a rush of noise and air. It didn’t matter. Bruce watched as the ice below gave way to ocean, then forests. They were heading for North America. That wasn’t surprising. It was peak hour there. Zod just heading towards the loudest closest mass of humans with the intent of doing as much damage as possible as quickly as possible.

“Do you see him?” Bruce yelled.

Clark. “Yes. Get ready.”

Bruce pulled the radiation cannon off his hip and braced himself. A moment later Clark dove through a cloud, drenching them both in seconds, but that was okay. They emerged in the Metropolis skyline and there, ahead, eyes blazing red, was Zod. He hadn’t noticed them yet, instead intent on picking off the people screaming and fleeing below.

Bruce bit back his anger, pointed his cannon, aimed and…

A pulse of red light.

They fell.

In an instant Bruce remembered the woman from the lab where he’d stolen the kryptonite. He thought about how little she’d fought as he emptied her lead lined safe. Of course… he should have known… that wasn’t her only anti-Superman weapon. It couldn’t be. She had others… and now she’d used them.

*

He couldn’t fly. Why couldn’t he fly? Why was he falling? Why was everything cold? Why did the air hurt? Why—? Clark cried out in pain as something struck him. He felt his skin rip and tear. He felt his bones break. He felt everything he should never feel. Dimly, a part of him knew he’d just struck the scaffolding on the side of a building. He should reach out. Try to grab hold of it. He should try to save himself. But it was moving by too fast. He was spinning out of control. He wasn’t sure which way was up. He couldn’t see. He could barely breathe. It hurt so much. Why did it hurt so much?

And then… He was hanging in the air. Below him he saw General Zod on the pavement, lying prone in a rapidly spreading puddle of blood.

But… how?

He tried to fly down there. Couldn’t. He wasn’t flying. He was hanging. Hanging by… he looked to the side to see Batman. Batman was holding him with one arm. In the other he held a grapple gun. The line on it was connected to the scaffolding they’d just fallen through. It creaked alarmingly.

“I need you to hold onto me, Clark,” Batman said.

Clark stared. Wasn’t he? No. Batman was holding him but he wasn’t…

“ _Now_. Hold me. This is about to give. I need my arm if I’m going to get us out of here.”

Clark tried to move. There was blood on his arms. Was that his? He’d never seen his blood before. “I… I can’t…”

Another creak from above.

“Yes you can.”

“No I—”

And for the first time he saw a flash of very real anger in Batman’s face. “Yes you can! Grab on!”

“I…”

“Come on, Kansas!”

Clark wrapped his arms, one of which was definitely broken, around Batman’s shoulders. A moment later the scaffolding gave and they were both falling again. But it didn’t matter. Batman was using both arms to reset the grapple. He looped it through his belt this time so he wouldn’t have to hold it and fired.

Clark gasped as the pressure on his limbs increased but held on. Blood was pounding in his ears, pain was rocketing through his side, and yet… somehow… through it all he remembered…

A boy, pale skin and skinny arms, raising his fists. _“Come on, Kansas.”_

A teenager, lying back on a bed, blue eyes dark with promise. _“Come on, Kansas.”_

And Batman, holding him above a fatal fall. _“Come on, Kansas!”_

No. It couldn’t be. Batman wasn’t… he _couldn’t_ be…

“Bruce?”

Batman turned his head to look at him and any doubt Clark had vanished. It wasn’t the pale skin, or the blue eyes shining from behind his lenses. It was the small but undeniable uptick in his heartbeat. _His heartbeat._

Clark almost laughed at the revelation. He knew Bruce’s heartbeat. He’d always known it. And when he’d first met Batman there had been something naggingly familiar about him… something Clark couldn’t pin down… until now.

“All this time… We’ve been working together and all this time you haven’t told me.”

Batman’s lips were thin. “That doesn’t matter right now.”

“To hell it doesn’t.” He coughed. Blood splashed onto Bruce’s shoulder. “I… fuck… Bruce… I don’t think I can hold on…”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you now. You can let go now.”

Bruce’s arm was around him. His cape was billowing back, black wings against the evening sky. Batman. He was Batman. Batman would keep him safe. Clark knew that. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the body armour. It was okay. It was all going to be… okay…


	17. Chapter 17

Bruce never made it back to Wayne Manor. Clark didn’t find out until three days later when Alfred left a message on their answering phone telling him he’d contacted the Gotham City Police Department and if Bruce was still there to call him immediately. The GCPD bumped the case off to the Feds who handed the case to the Kansas state troopers.

By the time they arrived at the Kent Farm almost a week had passed. They interviewed Clark but there was never any serious suspicion on him or his family. CCTV footage had emerged of Bruce getting on the bus that would take him home. The question became: did he make it to Gotham Central Station or did he get off the bus before that? No one had an answer which meant Bruce could be anywhere along thousands of miles of road.

A detective Clark listened to through the walls said there was no point looking for him. It was a needle in a haystack. Hell, it was a needle in a thousand haystacks. If they were lucky some idiot would send them a ransom notice for the boy billionaire. If not… well… what’s one less rich kid? Especially this one. He had a long history of juvenile delinquency. Running away, stealing alcohol, starting fights. He wasn’t going to do anything worthwhile with all his money.

It took all of Clark’s strength not to tear a hole in that police station and strangle that man with his own tie.

Clark checked every inch of that highway. Stopped at every truck stop. Nothing.

Alfred posted a reward of over a million dollars for any information that would lead to Bruce. A lot of people came forward but all the leads they gave ran into dead ends.

Bruce’s disappearance was national news… for a week. Two in Gotham. Then it was forgotten.

A year passed.

Then two.

Then three.

Not soon after the third anniversary of Bruce’s disappearance Alfred told Clark he’d filed paperwork, requesting that Bruce be declared dead. Clark had screamed at Alfred. Said things he’d never said before. Ugly nasty things.

He apologised at the funeral but it was a stiff apology, formal and forced. He never spoke to Alfred again.

But, despite that, it helped in a way. He knew Bruce was gone. He didn’t know how. Maybe Bruce was kidnapped but killed trying to fight back against his attackers. That seemed like something he would do. He would never sit quietly and wait for rescue. Not his Bruce. Or maybe he was murdered by someone who didn’t know he was a billionaire. Someone who just picked him because he was young and alone and had no way of calling for help. Or maybe… maybe he killed himself.

It hurt Clark to consider it but he had to. Because he knew Bruce. He knew he’d always been self-destructive. He knew those impulses had been getting worse. What if he got off the bus and jumped off a bridge somewhere? Or, more likely, what if he got off the bus and did something like climb the bridge, walk along the slippy metal beams. Maybe it was something he’d done a dozen times before. But this time…

It hurt too much to think about. So Clark didn’t. He bandaged up his arm and tried to move on.

He tried to go to medical school. Dropped out in the first week. He tried going to a community college. He dropped out in the first day. In the end the only thing he could do was what Bruce had told him to do with the last words he ever said to him.

He went north.

He followed the map until he found a strange fortress made out of crystal nestled in among the ice. It opened for him and there he met Jor-El. There he learnt his history. There he was given a suit, and a shield, and a purpose. Helping people. It was the last gift Bruce had given him, and he treasured it.

Being Superman brought joy into his life, and colour.

He put out fires, caught out of control trains, and held up bridges. He pulled cats from trees, talked to kids in school, and smiled for photos. He stood between gunfights, quietly removed most of the world’s weapons of mass destruction, and talked people back from cliff edges.

After one particular mission in Metropolis he met a woman. Lois Lane, she called herself. A reporter for the Daily Planet. “When are you free for an interview?”

He denied her. But then saw her again a few days later in Paris during a natural disaster. She asked the same question.

Then he saw her again a week later in Korea after he rescued some stranded fishermen.

“I’ll give you an interview if you tell me how you find out where I’m going to be before I know I’m going to be there.”  
  
She’d smiled. “Oh, I’ll give you that one for free, Superman. I’m an investigative journalist. It’s my business to be where the trouble is. Why? You looking for a new job?”

She’d laughed when she saw him in glasses, they didn’t fool her for a second, but it didn’t matter. At first he emptied the bins. Then he was a photocopier. Then a proof reader. He didn’t have a degree but that was okay because he could type faster than anyone, never had any spelling mistakes, and always had good scoops… almost as if he could see through walls Perry said one day, face carefully blank.

Clark had just smiled sheepishly. “Just lucky I guess.”

He got just one letter from Alfred. It was a notice telling him that, because Bruce had died without a will, his estate was going to be divided up by the Public Trustee office. Clark and Bruce had never married, but he did have Bruce’s name on his arm. If he wanted to make a claim on Bruce’s inheritance Alfred would support him.

Clark never answered that letter. He didn’t care about Bruce’s money. Let Bruce’s long lost cousins fight it out among themselves. It would be years before the Public Trustee would be able to start subdividing it anyway. Plenty of time for even those with the most obscure connection to Bruce to lawyer up and make their case. The very thought disgusted him. He wanted no part of it.

He had his memories of Bruce, and that was all that mattered. Some days those memories would be too heavy. He found a grief circle for those days. But most of the time those memories were a comfort. He liked remembering Bruce as he was. Strange, smart, perfect. The boy who told him he could fly and wouldn’t accept Clark’s protest. The teenager who kissed him without ever a hint of uncertainty. The man who’d found out he was an alien and didn’t scream or recoil… but told him he was still a person… and that he shouldn’t keep that part of himself locked up underground.

Despite everything, he never wished he’d had another soulmate.


	18. Chapter 18

Clark drifted. There were voices around him. Voices he knew, and voices he didn’t.

“…seventeen broken bones…”

“…a lot of blood…”

“…powers are returning…”

“…no… still need to move him…”

“…close the damn curtains!”

“We need to do this now before he gets stronger. If we wait his bones will set like this.”

That was a strange thing to say. Did someone need help? He could fly them to hospital. He thought about telling them that. There was no need to panic. He could do it. But then…

_Pain._

Clark screamed. He was being held down. He tried to fight free. Couldn’t. Diana was there, and Arthur, and the Green Lantern, and J’onn. Each of them had a limb. Each of them was struggling to hold him. What were they doing? Why were they hurting him? He thought they were his friends.

A woman in a white lab coat was helping J’onn pull and straighten out his arm.

Clark roared. His eyes blazed red. He saw them all step quickly back.

“Shh,” a hand was on his shoulder. “Easy, Clark.” That hand went from his shoulder to his face, gently turning it away from J’onn and the woman. “It’s okay. We’re trying to help you.” The hand turned his face towards… Batman. It was Batman. But then Batman was pushing his cowl back and it was Bruce. His Bruce. “It’s going to hurt. But it’s going to be okay.”

Clark stared at him.

He reached up with his good hand and touched him. His thumb left a blood stain on Bruce’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” Bruce told him. “It’s all going to be okay.” Then, in a different voice. “Do it. Do it now.”

“Batman. If he uses heat vision while you’re like that—”

“He won’t. Do it.”

The pain returned, worse this time. Clark whimpered and pulled Bruce closer. He didn’t hold him tightly. No. He knew not to hurt Bruce. But he kept him close. _I missed you_ , he wanted to say. _Please never leave again. I’ll do anything to make you stay. I love you. I never stopped loving you. I missed you so much._ And maybe some of that was out loud because Bruce was touching his hair, stroking it.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know. This is going to hurt, okay? Just hold on to me. That’s it. I’m sorry.”

Clark slipped slowly, mercifully, back into unconsciousness. When he woke he was naked, lying on a blanket of reflective foil, which in turn was spread out on a field of neatly trimmed grass. Above him the sky was blue and the sun bright.

Was he dead? Was this Heaven?

No. If this was Heaven Grandpa Jerry and Grandpa Joe would be there. And Rusty. And Pete’s dad. And—

Bruce was there. He sat on a fold out chair beside Clark under a simple shade structure. He was wearing a white shirt, reading The Daily Planet, and chewing absently on a triangular cucumber sandwich, looking for all the world like the pampered boy billionaire.

“I’m dreaming,” Clark concluded.

Bruce looked up and dropped his sandwich and his paper. “You’re awake.”

“No. I don’t think so.” He looked around and saw, behind him, the back of Wayne Manor. Wait. Was he lying on Bruce’s back lawn? Naked? While Bruce read a newspaper and ate sandwiches? What sort of weird dream was this? Unless…

He looked at the sun, at the reflective foil blanket he was lying on, and realised what was happening. “You’re recharging me.”

“I’m exposing you to solar light.”

“In Gotham?”

“It’s an abnormally sunny day.”

“Huh…” he didn’t know how he should feel about this.

“I am developing some solar light generators,” Bruce went on when the silence began to edge towards awkward. “Once they’re ready we’ll be able to expose you to high doses of solar light indoors. Until then…”

Until then he was sunbathing naked on his old boyfriend’s lawn, while said old boyfriend sat by, ate snacks, and read his newspaper.

Clark fought the urge to cup himself.

“Bruce?”

“Yes?”

“What… eh… happened?”

Bruce studied him for a long time. “You saved the world from General Zod,” he told him.

“Good. Okay. Got that. What else?”

“The US government employed an anti-Kryptonian weapon which rendered both you and Zod without powers. He fell to his death. You struck the side of a building and shattered the bones on the right side of your body.”

Clark looked down at his right hand. He balled it into a fist, rolled his wrist. It seemed fine.

“Your powers began to return only an hour after the weapon was triggered,” Bruce continued. “Along with them, your super healing. We had to work quickly to reset all your bones. That was three days ago.”

“I’ve been lying naked on your lawn for three days?”

“There are some UV lights inside. We put you there at night.” Softer. “Alfred called your parents. We debated moving you to Kansas, or moving you around the world, chasing daylight, but you seemed to be recovering well enough. They’re staying in the guest quarters.”

“Mum and dad are here?”

Bruce nodded. “They’re out with Alfred right now, buying groceries apparently, though I suspect the real reason is to talk without me listening. They’re almost as angry at me as you are.”

Clark croaked out a laugh. “Yeah. Well. You did let us all believe you were dead for years. If arsehole moves were ranked from one to ten, that would be an eleven.”

Bruce’s face was unreadable. “Only eleven. I need to try harder.”

Clark had to close his eyes for a moment to master the sudden surge of rage that shot through him. Hot, vile, and wrong. “This isn’t a joke Bruce,” he said when he’d beaten it down. “You broke my heart. You understand that, don’t you?”

Bruce studied him, eyes a soft grey in the sunlight. “Yes.”

“And then you… you lied to me. You were Batman all this time.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why did you do that?”

Bruce looked down and thought about that question for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was soft, childlike almost. “I can fly too Clark. It might not be as spectacular as what you can do. It might take some tools, some training. But I can.”

“What on Earth are talking about?”

“I needed to fall to learn how to fly. And I couldn’t fall with you… because I knew you’d catch me.”

“Bruce,” Clark was still angry. It was an anger that he’d carried around inside him ever since Bruce returned from the grave with a supermodel on each arm. “This isn’t a _game_. You left. You left for years. And when you came back you… you acted like what we had was _nothing_. Then you lied to me. You put on a mask and pretended to be my friend.”

Bruce was looking down again. Face set.

“Just tell me why. Was I bad soulmate? Did I do something wrong?”

“No Clark. You did everything right.”

“Then why?”

“It was me. It was me that was broken, not you. I…” Bruce sucked in a deep breath. “I just… I had to go.”

“Why?” Clark pushed. “Please tell me. _Please_.”

“Because staying, pretending to be happy, pretending everything was okay, was killing me.” Those words hit him like kryptonite bullets fired from an automatic gun. One after the other. Quick and deadly.

“Pretending to be happy,” Clark echoed. Bruce wasn’t happy with him. And he’d known that. Deep down he’d known Bruce wasn’t happy. He never had been. Even when they were boys. That was why he did so much stupid stuff. Why he drove fast, why he drank, why he refused to eat. The anger was still there but it was draining out of him like blood from an arterial wound. The thing that was replacing it was worse. Guilt. Shame. Horror. “Bruce I…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bruce told him. “You were a boy. You thought your love was strong enough to save me. And I… I wanted to believe that. I did. Because your love was the only worthwhile thing in my life. I don’t know if I would have survived as long as I did if you weren’t there, Clark. I honestly don’t. But I…” he hesitated. “I… I needed to face that abyss. I couldn’t keep ignoring it. I tried. I really did. For you. I tried to be happy. But I needed a purpose. I needed to take what I was, what had happened to me and my parents, and make something out of it. I needed it to _mean_ something. So I left.”

“You didn’t need to leave,” Clark said. His voice was small now.

Bruce’s wasn’t. He sounded sure of himself. Firm. “I did.”

“I… I could have come with you.”

“No Clark. You couldn’t have.”

“I… you could have sent me a message. A phone call. A letter. _Something_ to let me know you were alive.”

“No. I couldn’t have.”

_“Why?!”_ he yelled that. He hadn’t meant to yell that.

Bruce was still calm. “Because I didn’t know if I would survive. The likelihood was I wouldn’t… so it was better you thought I was dead. Because that way you could move on. If you thought I was alive you would have waited.”

Clark digested that information slowly as he tried to get control of his breathing. “You weren’t in Thailand, were you?”

“No,” Bruce confessed.

“Where were you?”

A long pause. Bruce sat hunched forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together. “I spent a year in China,” he finally said. “Another in Burma. I honed my skills, developed new ones, but I didn’t find what I was looking for. Then I went to Tibet. There was a man there who said he could help me make a better world. I trained under him.”

“This sounds like a cult.”

“It was. I thought I was unlike the others there. That I didn’t worship him the way they did. But I was wrong. I did worship him. I obeyed him, believed we shared a vision. But then…” Bruce’s face shifted slightly, so slightly if Clark didn’t know that face so well he may have missed it. A slight stiffening to his jaw muscles, an even slighter thinning of his lips. “He let things happen to me that I could not understand,” Bruce said. “When I questioned him he told me I was weak. He gave me a sword, and a murderer, and told me to kill. That was when I realised what his ‘better world’ entailed. I realised the sort of ‘missions’ he was training me for.”

Clark stared at him. “What happened?”

Bruce laughed. Softly. Sadly. “I wish I could tell you I burnt his citadel to the ground, that I threw his treasures into the river, that I sullied his sacred pool. But, the truth is, I fled. I fled in the middle of the night and hid… and while I was in hiding I realised if I wanted to make a difference then I couldn’t follow someone else. This was my mission. No matter how much I wanted guidance. No matter how much I wanted a father to tell me what to do I… I was alone. So I kept training. I kept fighting. I kept learning. Eventually I heard that Bruce Wayne’s estate was about to be released… and I knew I needed that money, so I returned. But I still wasn’t there yet, Clark. I was still lost. I needed…”

“Batman,” Clark finished that sentence for him.

“Yes,” Bruce said, voice barely more than a whisper.

Another long pause. Clark used it to go over everything Bruce had told him, to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. He thought of the troubled boy he’d known. The one that would jump off buildings and smile savagely as he drove a car towards an impossible turn. Then he thought of Batman, of all the good he’d done, and the man sitting before him now.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?” He muttered. “When you first came back?”

“Because I was scared you’d stop me.”

“Bruce. No. I would have helped you. Batman is… is amazing. I would never have held you back from that.”

Bruce studied him. “You sent me a letter,” he told him. “After I came back, but before I was Batman. Do you remember?”

“You never opened it,” Clark said.

“I held it up to the light and I read it.”

“I was asking you to talk.”

“You didn’t _ask_ me anything, Clark. You _told_ me.”

“That’s not true, Bruce. I—”

“Bruce,” Bruce said.

At first Clark was confused. Why did he just say his own name? But then Bruce continued, his cadence slow and rhythmic, like he was reciting a poem.

“You need to talk to me. You’re my soulmate, so we have to work this out, somehow. I don’t know how. I don’t know how I can ever forgive you for what you put me through. But we need to try. Clark J. Kent.”

Clark stared at him. “That’s… that’s my letter.”

“You never _asked_ me anything, Clark. You told me I _needed_ to talk to you. You said we _have_ to work this out. You never _asked_. Because you didn’t trust me. Not then. Not really. And I don’t blame you for that. I hadn’t given you any reason to trust me. But, if you were going to be by my side as I became Batman, I needed that trust.” A deep breath. Bruce sat back. “Besides. You had a girlfriend. You had moved on. And that was good. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to find someone who could be happy.”

“Lois broke up with me when she learnt you were alive.”

Bruce flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want that.”

Another silence. This was shorter, stranger. Clark wasn’t sure how he was feeling anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, voice suddenly husky. “I know I hurt you. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. But I’m sorry. I love you. I do. I never stopped loving you.” His eyes were locked onto Clark, but they were angled just a little too low, like he was looking at Clark’s cheek or nose and not his eyes. Like he was ashamed. “I tried to tell you who I was after you gave me the kryptonite. I know you won’t believe that now, but I did. I tried to tell you a dozen times. But I… I was a coward. I let myself think it was because I didn’t want to hurt you, but the truth was I didn’t want to lose you. Because I’m selfish. Because I didn’t want to go through what I put you through. Which is just another thing I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for.”

There was water on Clark’s cheeks. He’d cried. When had he cried? Was he crying now? Is that why his head hurt?

“I… Bruce I…”

Bruce waited.

Clark sucked in a deep breath and wiped his cheeks on the heel of his palm. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me.”

He laughed, the sound raw and painful. “Right. Sure. Okay. We’ll see how long that rule lasts.”

“Clark. This isn’t a joke.”

“I know. I just… fuck. Give me your shirt.”

Bruce sat up straighter. “My shirt?”

“Yeah. I’m naked, and you’re not, and I’ve been pretending that’s not weird but the truth is it’s a little weird. Please give me your shirt.”

Slowly Bruce rose from his seat, moved onto the foil blanket, and sat down beside Clark. He pulled his shirt off his shoulders just as slowly, keeping his face down, which gave time for Clark to school his expression as his scars were revealed. There were a lot of them. Some old, some new. The older ones looked worse. A chunk of skin missing from his shoulder, a large slice across his belly, and a burn on his collarbone. That wasn’t the only difference though. There was muscle on him now. And a healthy layer of fat. It shamed Clark to realise this was the first time he’d ever seen Bruce’s torso not underweight. But, despite all the differences, one thing remained untouched. Clark’s name, printed across his ribs in large black letters.

Clark took the shirt and bundled it around his hips.

Bruce was looking at him like he was waiting for Clark to say something.

“You’ve got a broken rib,” he said.

“Unfortunately I don’t heal quite as fast as you.”

“Do you have any more of those sandwiches?”

“I’ll have Alfred make a plate when he gets back.”

“Hm,” Clark lay back on the foil.

Bruce hesitated for a long time before slowly, almost shyly, lying down beside him.

“Remember when we were kids and we used to have picnics like this at the farm?”

“We were eleven.”

“Those were good. Why didn’t we ever do that here?”

“Because you can see my parents’ graves from here.”

“Oh… shit. That’s a graveyard. Okay. I just thought it was a garden or something. Yeah. I get it. That kind of dampens the whole picnic vibe. Still, this is nice.”

Bruce was looking at him like he was worried Clark had lost his mind. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” And, to his surprise, he found it wasn’t a lie.

He felt drained but also light, like his veins had been full of poison and by doing this, by having this conversation, he’d cut open his wrists had let it all bleed out. He knew if he focused on Bruce’s past betrayals he could find that anger inside him again, but he didn’t want to. He just wanted to lie there, with him, in the Gotham sun.

Maybe this is how they should have met. Both adults. Both superheroes. Both who they were meant to be. But, then he thought about their childhood together and, despite everything, despite the years of pain and loss and grief, he knew he wouldn’t give that up. Not for the world.

He wasn’t sure how long they lay there. It must have been a long time because when he woke the spot they had on the lawn was being swallowed by the shadow flowing from Wayne Manor. Bruce was asleep beside him, his skin a little pinker than it should be. Hm. Maybe if they were going to sunbathe together again he’d get some sunscreen. Clark reached over to wake Bruce but paused when he heard a sound.

Voices. Soft but there.

He rolled over and looked up at the mansion on the hill. Through the walls he found the source of the noise. It was his mum and dad. They were in the kitchen with Alfred… showing him how to make his mum’s infamous homemade ice cream.

He laughed out loud. He never thought she’d reveal that secret. Not to anyone outside the family.

He reached out and shook Bruce gently. “Hey. Get up.”

A silvery blue eye opened. He stretched, flinched, and looked at his pink chest with a frown on his face. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. I forget you’re so white sometimes.”

“You’re as white as me.”

“I’m whiter now. No. Don’t scratch. Mum, dad, and Alfred are inside. They’re making icecream. They’ll have some aloe vera or something for you. Come on.”

They got up together. Bruce gathered up the blanket and his chair while Clark knotted the shirt around his waist and took down the shade structure Bruce probably should have taken his nap under. He walked behind Bruce and watched him as they made their way back to the manor.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to be with Bruce again. He wasn’t sure what it would look like if they did, despite everything, try to be a couple again. He wasn’t sure if that was what Bruce wanted or needed. Heck, he wasn’t sure if it was even possible after everything. But that didn’t matter. They loved each other. They’d never stopped loving each other. He knew that. He knew his own feelings and he knew Bruce hadn’t been lying when he told him his. Being able to hold that feeling in his chest again was enough.


	19. Chapter 19

“Hey Clark.”

“Yeah? What’s up, Bruce?”

“What do you think our future is going to be like?”

“That’s easy. Perfect.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You’re my soulmate. We’re destined to be together.”

“Soulmates don’t always work out you know. Sometimes even soulmates break up.”

“That won’t happen to us.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Don’t know. Just am.”

They were lying side by side on a blanket outside the homestead on the Kent farm, looking up at the stars. Clark had brought a small oil lamp which was attracting moths. Bruce watched them. White wings in the darkness, strangely hypnotic in their random swirling paths.

“What do you think our life is going to be like?” Clark bounced the question.

Bruce considered the other boy. Bright, happy, and... yes... he looked okay too. What would life with him be like? Would it be okay? Would it be better?

“Smallville or Gotham?” Bruce asked.

“What about a middle ground? Metropolis?”

Bruce grimaced. “No.”

“What’s wrong with Metropolis?”

“It’s ugly.”

“I think it looks nice.”

“Gotham looks nice.”

Clark made a face. “Does it?”

This wasn’t a great start.

“What about kids?” Clark asked.

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. “Kids?”

“Yeah. How many do you want?”

“Zero.”

Clark pouted. “Really? Not even one?”

“No kids,” Bruce insisted.

“Hm,” Clark said in a voice that meant this conversation was not over. “What about marriage. Do you want to get married?”

Bruce thought about that for a long time. “I don’t know.”

“If we get married there is going to be bagpipes. Smallville tradition.”

“Then no.”

“Oh come on Bruce. They’re not that bad.”

“Left or right?” Bruce asked.

Clark made a face. “Huh?”

“Sides of the bed.”

“Does… does that matter?”

“Yes. The person who sleeps on the left of the bed also gets the left wardrobe and also the left vanity.”

“Wait. Wouldn’t we just share a wardrobe?”

Bruce looked at Clark’s clothes. Bright red plaid for the second day in a row. “No.”

“But—”

“This one’s non-negotiable, Kent.”

Clark titled his head to the side. “So that means the other ‘no’s are negotiable?”

“Left or right?” Bruce asked again, firmer this time.

Clark thought about it for a long time, his brow furrowed and his strangely bright blue eyes shining through the gloom. Finally… “We can switch.”

“Switch? What are you talking about?”

“That way it’s fair. Because some nights we might want it one way… but other nights another, right? If we switch then we both get a turn.” He shifted closer to Bruce. “I think it’d be fun, switching with you.”

“Adults don’t switch beds,” Bruce told him.

“Na-ah. Adults move around in bed _all_ the time. It’s really annoying. So loud.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of this information.

“I have another question,” Clark said.

“What?”

Clark hesitated. “I… um… no this is stupid.”

_“What?”_

“I just… is there anything that would make you hate me? Like… if you found out something about me?”

“Like what?”

“I… I don’t know. Just… something weird.”

Bruce frowned at him through the darkness. He thought of all the things the boy beside him could be. He thought of all the things he could become. “Yes,” he answered.

Clark shrunk back. “Oh. Okay.”

“Murderer,” Bruce said the word. “That’s the thing that would make me hate you.”

“The only thing?”

“Yeah.”

Clark didn’t look so sure.

“What about you?” Bruce asked, curious now. “Is there anything I could do to make you hate me?”

Clark blinked and then laughed. “No Bruce. There is nothing you could do.”

“What if I killed someone?”

“Then I would be confused. And angry. But I… I don’t think I’d hate you. Besides, you wouldn’t do that.”

“You don’t know that. I could kill someone.” Joe Chill flashed across his mind’s eye. Gaunt, grey, and holding a gun awkwardly in one hand. “It would be easy.” Not just easy. _Good_. It would feel good to be on the other side of that gun. To see the fear in that man’s eyes. To be the monster instead of the victim.

“No,” Clark shook his head. “You wouldn’t do that. I know you wouldn’t.”

Bruce frowned. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Clark said again.

And, for some reason, the confidence Clark had in him, the simple belief that he wouldn’t kill someone, wouldn’t become something like that… it was… oddly empowering. He’d heard his tutors talk behind his back in hushed worried tones. He’d sat through all the therapy sessions where they asked the targeted questions. He’d listened to Alfred quietly asking why he’d broken all his pencils. All of them, looking for the monster within. But Clark wasn’t. Clark just believed he was good, without even really knowing him.

“Huh,” Bruce settled back into the blanket and looked up at the stars. _“Huh.”_

He’d only known Clark for two days. But maybe he was right. Maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe the name on his side meant everything would work out despite the nagging voices in his head. And would it be so bad? To spend his life with this strange invulnerable boy who wanted to show him everything from his favourite baseball to his sunflower patch.

Clark J Kent. His soulmate.

It was still such a strange thought.

Yet… despite his original fears… maybe this could work. Maybe… with Clark… a future wouldn’t be _too_ bad… even if he couldn't pick a side of the bed.

“I don’t actually care where we live,” Clark said all of a sudden. “Or if we get married, or if we have kids, or what side of the bed we sleep on. It doesn’t matter. As long as we’re together it’ll be okay.”

In that moment, gazing up at the stars with the loud happy farmboy at his side, moths swarming around them, a part of him thought Clark was right. They were fated. It would happen. The details didn’t matter. All that mattered was them, together, against everything else.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah… it’ll be okay... we’ll figure it out.”

“Clark! Bruce! It’s getting late! Time to come to bed!”

“Coming Ma!”

“Coming Mrs Kent.”

“Don’t forget the blanket.”

Together. “We won’t.”


	20. Chapter 20

It amazed Clark sometimes both how much and how little people changed. He met Bruce when they were eleven years old. He met him again when they were in their twenties. He knew him now, at fifty. And despite the enormous amount of change he’d gone through in that time, he was still, in some ways, that eleven year old boy. He was still that man in his mid-twenties unable to meet Clark’s gaze as he apologised, the shame and guilt etched into every line of his face. He was still, and would always be, Clark’s soulmate, not because he was perfect, or because they somehow fixed each other, but because they knew each other inside and out, trusted each other, and supported each other through both the good times and the bad.

It had taken a long time for them to come together again after Zod’s invasion. They started by just being friends. And that had been good. It had been fun even, to be with Bruce but not have any expectations put on them by the names on their skin. They worked together as Batman and Superman, ate takeout on rooftops, and even somehow managed to transform the Justice League from a gang of costumed vigilantes hiding out in storage crates to an internationally recognised organisation based out of their own space station. 

Clark was just starting to think maybe he should ask Bruce on a date – had even spoken about it to Diana during a three week mission in space – when he returned to discover Bruce and Alfred trying to get a seven year old boy down from the chandelier. Small, with dark hair, and large eyes. His name was Damian al Ghul.

Bruce explained what had happened late that night. He told Clark about the rape… or what little he could remember of it. He told him how Talia al Ghul had shown up, told Bruce Damian failed his training, and left without a backwards glance. And Clark… well… after flying into the asteroid belt and punching a few rocks into sand, Clark decided to stay at Wayne Manor that night. Because Bruce was clearly overwhelmed, because Damian was violent and angry and everything Bruce had been as a child but somehow even more uncontained, and because if this boy was part of Bruce’s life then he wanted to be there for that.

And so, life went on. Bruce was a father now. And Clark… Clark wasn’t sure what he was. He was spending more time at the manor than his own apartment and had picked up a habit of passing out in Bruce’s bed when Bruce was on patrol. It wasn’t until one morning he woke up to find Bruce in sleeping bed with him, did he think that perhaps it was time to make this official.

He invited him on a date. Bruce agreed and Damian, who had been eavesdropping, didn’t protest _too_ much.

Clark counted it as a victory.

A couple of years later Clark went on another space mission and when he came back there was another boy in Wayne Manor. Timothy Drake. The son of a local business person. His mother had been murdered by a mob leader and his father was testifying. Because of the immediate danger Bruce had offered to take him in as a ward. Damian hated him. He argued that letting him stay was a threat to their secret identities. He wasn’t exactly wrong. Tim was smart. _Very_ smart. And it didn’t take him long to figure out who Superman, Batman, and Robin were. But, despite that, Clark was glad he was there.

When his father went into witness protection Tim decided to stay.

He said it was because he had his soulmark already. He couldn’t change his name now. His soulmate would never find him. But, Clark knew that was a lie. Tim didn’t have a soulmark yet. He just wanted to stay. Clark, for one, was glad.

Damian would never admit it, but Clark suspected he was glad too.

It was around this time that Clark asked Bruce to marry him. Bruce said he had to ask the kids. Damian’s interview had been long and kinda terrifying, but in the end he was deemed ‘acceptable’. Tim had just hugged him. Only a month after the ceremony Bruce came home with a third child, a girl this time. Cassandra Cain. Yet another child orphaned by the League of Assassins.

She didn’t talk much. In fact, for a long time she didn’t talk at all. At least, not to Clark. But Damian and Tim were kinder to her than they were to each other and after a while her quiet watchful gaze became just another part of what made that big old house home.

And it was, Clark realised. He was still renting an apartment in Metropolis but he was barely there anymore. He’d been living with Bruce for years. And why shouldn’t he? Bruce was his husband, not to mention soulmate, and at this point they’d been together longer than they’d been apart. He broke the lease on that apartment and changed his postal address.

“About time,” was the only thing Bruce ever said.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

Two years later Bruce came back from patrol with a third boy. Jason Todd. Far too young to be homeless, but that was Gotham. What eventually happened to Jason changed Bruce. For the first time since they were boys Clark saw Bruce go into a dark place where he could not follow and could not help. But, this time, he knew better than to promise he would save him. He let Bruce be alone when he needed to be, he left Bruce to scream and yell in the back of the cave for hours, and he helped by taking on the bulk of the workload from the League. It wasn’t until months had passed that he realised he’d been so busy that he hadn’t cried for Jason yet. So he did. He took the boy’s soft toy and buried it on Pluto, because Jason always said that was his favourite planet, even if it wasn’t a planet anymore.

Pluto. God of the dead. Strange how these things happen.

Jason came back from the dead. But he didn’t come back the same. It didn’t matter. They took him back, when they finally found him, and helped him as best they could. By then they also had Dick, a young boy from the circus whose parents were murdered in front of him and who Bruce took one look at and refused to leave behind until the child protection services signed him into Bruce’s care.

Dick helped Jason a lot. Never afraid of him, not upset that he wasn’t who he used to be. Clark could understand why Jason liked him. But, the truth was, everyone liked Dick. He was too charming not to like… and he knew it.

“You know, I recall you once telling me the number of kids you wanted.”

Bruce just glared at him.

“I’m not complaining. Just wondering… Maybe one day I’ll be the one to bring home a child without asking.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Bruce said.

And if that wasn’t prophetic he didn’t know what was because ten days later a space ship crashed into Gotham River and a blonde girl wearing the shield of El climbed out. In all fairness, he wasn’t actually the one to bring her home. Bruce did that. Because of course he did. But it was weirdly nice to have someone with his own kryptonian blue eyes at the dinner table. It made the family they had feel all the more _theirs_.

“Clark?”

“Yeah, Bruce?”

“I’m glad you’re with me. This… wouldn’t be as much fun… without you.”

Clark grinned. It wasn’t exactly the life he’d imagined when the name Bruce Wayne had first appeared on his arm. It wasn’t perfect. Far from it. It was messy, chaotic, and strange. But, he supposed, that’s what kept it interesting.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

That earnt him an elbow in the ribs which definitely hurt Bruce way more than it did him.

Clark smiled fondly and pulled him closer. Bruce never did like pet names. But that was okay. He was also never in bed before 1 AM (and hogged the bedsheets when he finally arrived), was an utter bastard before his morning coffee, and had an unfortunate habit of assuming everything that went wrong was somehow his fault. But that was also okay. Because he also had more empathy in his little finger than most people had in their whole body, would work himself to the bone trying to solve a case, and was fucking extraordinary when he went out into the field. He made mistakes, he was terrible at talking about his feelings, and only wanted to cuddle when it was cold, but all of it was okay because he was Bruce.

And, despite all of Bruce’s imperfections, despite everything they had been through, Clark wouldn’t change him for the world.

*

If there was one thing Bruce would change about Clark it was that kryptonians typically ran a couple of degrees hotter than humans. Normally, this was fine. In fact, there were certain benefits to having a super-heated alien body in his bed late at night. But, when it came to sex in the summer it was less than ideal. And, unfortunately, all that sun meant summer was when Clark was at his horniest.

It wasn’t a bad idea Clark had had when they were boys to go into the dam to have sex. Bruce didn’t have a dam in or around Wayne Manor, but he had his fair share of showers, some of them quite large. And shower sex with someone who could fly was… interesting… to say the least.

Bruce grunted as he was pressed up against the tiles of the shower ceiling, water streaming out of the jets over his back. Clark was devouring his neck, body naked and hard against Bruce’s. And this… this was one of the best solutions to a problem Bruce had ever come up with.

Clark’s hips were grinding into him, crushing their pelvises together. His hands were on Bruce’s sides. The thumb of his right hand was rubbing back and forth on his ribs, gently tracing the corner of his soulmark.

He shuddered. Soulmarks were strange in that way. All studies said, with confidence, that they weren’t any more or less sensitive than the skin around them. There was no extra nerves, no extra cells, nothing to suggest anything was different, other than the pigment. But, whenever Clark touched his soulmark, Bruce swore there was… something.

He reached out and took a hold of Clark’s wrist, the one connected to the hand tracing the letters on Bruce’s side. He slid his fingers up until he found Clark’s soulmark. Clark’s breath hitched against his neck.

Perhaps it was just psychological. Perhaps it was just because they knew what they were doing, what they were touching. Perhaps it was just some weird fetish. Bruce didn’t waste too much time trying to figure it out. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand. Matters like Clark’s thigh which had been sliding between Bruce’s legs, opening him and grinding up against all the parts of him which…

“Fuh… _ah_ … fuck… me. Come on. _Fuck_. Now.”

Clark huffed out a laugh. “How can I say no when you ask so nicely?”

_Bastard._

“If you… hhhhmm… don’t have the balls to… get out so I can…”

Bruce’s words broke off with a groan as Clark slid a soaking wet finger into him. And… yes… that was it… that’s what he wanted. He tipped his head back, water splashing over his face. He didn’t care. Clark’s fingers were precise and powerful, massaging him open with practised efficiency.

When Clark had first fucked him it had hurt. It wasn’t Clark’s fault. Clark had tried to go slow. But they were teenagers, Clark was harder than diamonds, and Bruce wasn’t going to tell him to stop. When they started having sex again Bruce had avoided bottoming. But the truth was, he still wanted that. It took a long time for him to beat back the small hesitant part of him and talk to Clark. They’d been careful and it had been good. Very good.

Now, years later, they didn’t need to go slow. Clark knew his body almost as well as he did, he knew how to open him up, how to fuck him well and hard without hurting him, and how to make him come so hard he saw stars.

“Yeah? That feel good?”

“You… hgg… know it does… You… mmm… know what you do to me.”

Clark’s grin couldn’t be described as anything but hungry. He pressed his lips against Bruce’s and devoured him, all the while working the first two fingers on his right hand deeper and deeper into Bruce, circling the root of his cock but never quite pressing on it.

Bruce was just starting to get lost in that sensation, the pressure, the tease, the _heat_ , – God, why was he always so warm? – when Clark withdrew. A moment later Bruce felt the head of his penis press against him. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the raw stretch followed by the familiar full feeling as Clark slid home.

“Okay?”

“Yeah…”

He thought about what it must look like, Clark’s cock buried in his arse, and had to fight back the surge of want and need that shot through him, almost enough to send him over the brink. He didn’t want to come. Not yet.

“I told you to fuck me.”

Another laugh. This was decidedly more breathless. “Hold on.”

He wasn’t telling him to wait. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark, hitched up his legs a little higher. Clark pulled Bruce against him tighter and floated away from the ceiling so they were hovering together in the stream of water. There, he fucked him.

And this… this was why fate put their names on each other. Because fucking and being fucked by Clark J Kent was the single most carnal pleasure of his life.

Clark was his soulmate. But he was also a lot of other things that mattered a hell of a lot more. He was Bruce’s hero, his partner, his best friend. He was the boy with blue eyes that had so much faith in him it hurt, he was the man who kissed him and forgave him for everything Bruce had put him through, and he was the person, the only person in the world, Bruce would want to raise his children with.

“You feel so… so good,” Clark rasped. “God. _Fuck_.”

He was moving harder now, faster. Bruce clung to him and relished the feeling of being parted, opened, moved, and _used_ by the other man.

“Yeah. Fuck. You gonna come?”

Clark groaned, low and deep, and kissed him again. His fingers were digging into Bruce’s hips almost hard enough to leave bruises. Almost. That was the thing with Clark. Even here, even now, he never wanted to hurt him. It was so—

Clark pulled his face back, breaking the kiss. “Shit.”

Bruce frowned. “What is it?”

His question was answered a second later by a soft knock on the door.

“Bruce? Is that you?” It was Dick.

“You should be in bed,” he called out.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

The tone of his voice… that meant nightmares. “I’ll be out in a minute. Just wait.”

“Okay,” Dick muttered.

Clark was looking at him, cheeks flushed with colour, on the edge of orgasming.

“Shh,” Bruce whispered and moved just a little, just enough, in a way he knew would make Clark…

Clark had to bury his face in Bruce’s neck to smother the sound.

“Shh,” Bruce said again, stroking his hair. “SShh.” He could feel Clark spilling inside him. Warm. So warm.

“Bruce… You haven’t…”

“Shh. Later. We can do it later. Put me down.”

Clark obeyed. Bruce fought back the side of him which wanted nothing more than to stay in that shower with that cock buried deep inside him and stepped back, washed himself as quickly as he could, and cut the water. His penis was quickly getting the message and was thankfully easy to tuck aside as he dressed in his pyjamas and went out to scoop Dick off his bedroom floor. It had been three years since Dick’s parents were murdered but Bruce knew those nightmares never really went away.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to your room.”

He tuck him in and spoke to him in low tones for the hour it took for Dick to close his eyes and fall back to sleep.

When he returned to his bedroom Clark was lying in their bed, still naked, watching.

“You’re good with him.”

“Hm.”

“Still wanna come? You can fuck me if you want.”

What an offer. Without a word Bruce climbed into bed, crawled across the mattress, and reconnected his lips with Clark’s. Clark’s touch was warm and welcoming. Because of course it was. Because he was Clark. And, despite all the fears and reservations he’d had when Clark’s name first appeared on his skin, he knew there was no one else he’d rather be with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say about this story except that I really hoped you liked it. It has helped me having a project like this during this somewhat turbulent time and it has been utterly wonderful waking up in the morning and seeing your responses and feedback. Seriously, thank you so so SO much. It really has been overwhelming.
> 
> P.S This fic now offically has fanart! Woot! Check it out [here](https://darkest-drop.tumblr.com/post/614691768291770368/show-chapter-archive) and please don't hesitate to like and reblog. We fans have got to look out for each other.


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